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STROPHE. Arabia's scorching fands he cross’d,

Where blasted Nature pants supine,
Conductor of her tribes aduft,

To Freedom's adamantine shrine ;
And many a Tartar hord forlorn, aghaft +,

He snatch'd from under fell Oppression's wing ;
And taught, amidst the dreary waste,

Th' all-chearing hymns of Liberty to fing.
He virtue finds, like precious ore,

Diffus'd thro' ev'ry bafer mould;
E’en now he stands on Calvis' rocky shore,

And turns the dross of Corfica to gold 1.
He, guardian genius, taught my youth

Pomp's tinsel'd liv'ry to despise :
My lips by him chastis'd to truth
Ne'er paid that homage which the heart denies.

ANTISTROPHE.
Those sculptur'd halls my feet shall never tread

Where varnish'd vice and vanity combin'd,
To dazzle and feduce their banners spread,

And forge vile shackles for the free-born mind: Where Infolence his wrinkled front uprears,

And all the flowers of fpurious fancy blow, And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears,

Full often wreath'd around the miscreant's brow:

* Arabia's scorching Sands, &c.] The Arabs, rather than refign their inde.. pendency, have often abandoned their habitations, and encountered all che horrors of the derart.

+ And many a Tartar bord, &c.] From the tyranny of Jenghis-Khan, Timar-Bec, and other eastern conquerors, whole tribes of Tartars were used to fily into the remotest wastes of Cathay, where no army would follow them.

| And turns the dross of Corsica, &c.] The noble stand made by Paschal, Paoli and his associates against the usurpation of the French king, mut endear them to all the fons of liberty and independence.

Wherever

Wherever dimpling Palfhood, pert and vain,

Presents her cup of ftate profession's froth, And pale Disease, with all his blasted train,

Torments the fons of Gluttony and Sloth.

STROPHE.

In Fortune's car behold that minion ride,

With either India's glittering spoils oppress’d : So moves the sumpter-mule, in harness'd pride,

That bears the treasure which he cannot taste. For him let venal bards disgrace the bay,

And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string; Her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay,

And all her gingling bells fantastick Folly ring:
Disquiet, doubt, and dread shall intervene;

And Nature, still to all her feelings just,
In vengeance hang a damp on every scene,
Shook from the baleful pinions of Disguft.

ANTISTROPHE.
Nature I'll court in her fequefter'd haunts,

By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell, Where the pois'd lark his evening ditty chaunts,

And Health and Peace, and Contemplation, dwell. There Study shall with Solitude recline,

And Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains; And Toil and Temperance sedately twine

The flender chord that fluttering life fuftains ; And fearless Poverty shall guard the door,

And Taste unspoil'd the fruyal table spread ;
And Industry supply the humble store,

And Sleep unbrib'd his dews refreshing shed:
White-mantled Innocence, etherial sprite,
Shall chase far off the goblins of the night,
And Independence o'er the day prefide,
Propitious power! my patron and my pride !

!

ODE

ODE TO A SINGING 'BIRD.

BY MR. RICHARDSON.

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Thou that glad'It my lonesome ḥours

With many a wildly warbled song,
When Melancholy round me lours,
And drives her fullen storms along;

When fell Adversity prepares
To lead her delegated train,
Pale Sickness, Want, Remorse, and Pain,

With all her host of carking cares ;
The fiends ordain'd to tame the human soul,
And give the humbled heart to Sympathiy's controul !

Sweet foother of my mifery, fay,

Why doft thou clap thy joyous wing?
Why doft thou pour that artless lay?
How canst thou, little prisoner, fing?.

Haft thou not cause to grieve
That man, unpitying man ! has rent
From thee the boon which Nature meant

Thou should't, as well as he, receive ?
The power to woo thy partner in the grove ;
To build where instinct points ; where chance directs, to rove.

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Perchance, unconscious of thy fate,

And to the woes of bondage blind,
Thou never long'st to join thy mate,
Nor wifheit to be unconfin'd;

Then how relentless he,
And fit for every foul offence,
Who could bereave such innocence

!
Of life's best blessing, Liberty!
Who lur'd thee, guileful, to his treacherous snare,
To live a tuneful nave, and dissipate his care!

But

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But why for thee this fond complaint?

Above thy master thou art bless’d!
Art thou not free Yes ; calm Content,
With olive sceptre, fways thy breaft:

Then deign with me to live ;
The falcon' with insatiate maw,
With: hooked bill and griping claw,

Shall ne'er thy destiny contrive;
And every tabby foe shall mew in vain,
While pensively demure the hears thy melting strain.

Nor shall the fiend, fell Famine, dare

Thy wiry tenement affail;
These, these shall be my constant care,
The limpid fount, and temp?rate meal :

And when the blooming spring
In chequer'd liv'ry robes the fields,
The fairest flow'rets Nature yields

To thee officious will I bring ;
A garland rich thy dwelling fhall entwine,
And Flora's freshest gifts, thrice happy bird! be thine.

From drear Oblivion's gloomy cave

The powerful Mufe shall wrest thy name,
And bid thee live beyond the grave;
This meed the knows thy merits claim :

She knows thy liberal heart
Is ever ready to dispense
The tide of bland Benevolence,

And Melody's soft aid impart ;
Is ready still to prompt the magick lay,
Which hushes all our griefs, and charms our pains away.

Erewhile,

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Erewhile, when brooding o'er my soul

Frown'd the black demons of Despair,
Did not thy voice that power controul,
And oft suppress the rising tear ?

If Fortune should be kind,
If e'er with affluence I'm bless’d,
I'll often feek fome friend distress'd;

And when the weeping wretch. I find,
Then, tuneful moralist, I'll copy thee,
And folace all his woes with social fympathy!

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H, ftay!-Thy wand oblivious o'er my eyes

Yet wave, mild power of sleep!--My prayer is vain ! She flies; the partial nurse of Nature flies,

With all her foothing, visionary train !

Then let me forth, and near yon flowering thorn
Taste heaven's

pure breath ; while, rob’d in amber veft,

l Fresh from her watery couch, the youthful morn

Steals on the slumbers of the drowzy eaft.

Lo! at her presence, the strong arm of toil,

With glittering fickle mows the prime of May; While yon poor hirelings, for the mine's rude foil,

Leave to their sleeping babes their cots of clay,

With sturdy step, they chearly whiftle o'er

The path that Alings across the reedy plain, To the deep caverns of that yawning moor,

Whose shaggy break abhors the golden grain.

There,

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