Up yon green slope, of hazels trim,
An avenue so cool and dim
Shall to an arbour, at the end,
In spite of gout, entice a friend.
My predecessor loved devotion-
But of a garden had no notion."
Continuing this fantastic farce on,
He now commences country parson.
To make his character entire,
He weds-a Cousin of the Squire;
Not over weighty in the purse,
But many Doctors have done worse:
And though she boasts no charms divine,
Yet she can carve, and make birch wine.
Thus fix'd, content he taps his barrel,
Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel;
Finds his Church-wardens have discerning
Both in good liquor and good learning;
With tithes his barns replete he sees,
And chuckles o'er his surplice fees;
Studies to find out latent dues,
And regulates the state of pews;
Rides a sleek mare with purple housing,
To share the monthly club's carousing;
Of Oxford pranks facetious tells,
And-but on Sundays-hears no bells;
Sends presents of his choicest fruit,
And prunes himself each sapless shoot;
Plants cauliflowers, and boasts to rear
The earliest melons of the year;
Thinks alteration charming work is,
Keeps bantam cocks, and feeds his turkeys;
Builds in his copse a favourite bench,
And stores the pond with carp and tench.-

But, ah! too soon his thoughtless breast By cares domestic is opprest;

And a third butcher's bill, and brewing,
Threaten inevitable ruin :

For children fresh expenses yet,
And Dicky now for school is fit.
"Why did I sell my college life,"
He cries, "for benefice and wife?
Return, ye days, when endless pleasure
I found in reading, or in leisure!
When calm around the common-room
I puff'd my daily pipe's perfume!
Rode for a stomach, and inspected,
At annual bottlings, corks selected:
And dined untax'd, untroubled, under
The portrait of our pious Founder!
When impositions were supplied
To light my pipe-or soothe my pride-
No cares were then for forward peas,
A yearly-longing wife to please;

My thoughts no christening dinners crost,
No children cried for butter'd toast;
And every night I went to bed,
Without a Modus in my head!”

Oh! trifling head, and fickle heart!
Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art;
A dupe to follies yet untried,
And sick of pleasures, scarce enjoy'd!
Each prize possess'd, thy transport ceases,
And in pursuit alone it pleases.

Thomas Warton.-Born 1728, Died 1790.

974. TO FANCY.

O parent of each lovely muse!
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.

O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy snowy hand

An all-commanding magic wand,
Of power to bid fresh gardens grow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Through air, and over earth and sea,
While the various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes!
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Midst falls of water, you reside;
'Midst broken rocks a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between;
'Midst forests dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke
Where never human heart appear'd,
Nor e'er one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,
Where Nature seem'd to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne;
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown sequester'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whose top a hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to rest;
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Rapt in some wild poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser through a fairy grove;
Till suddenly awaked, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd
By the sweetly-soothing sound!

Me, goddess, by the right hand lead,
Sometimes through the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court;
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rose-lipp'd Hebe leads;
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
Listening to the shepherd's song.

Yet not these flowery fields of joy Can long my pensive mind employ; Haste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly, To meet the matron Melancholy, Goddess of the tearful eye,

That loves to fold her arms and sigh!

Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek ;
Or to some abbey's mouldering towers,
Where to avoid cold winter's showers,
The naked beggar shivering lies,
Whilst whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles lest the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire;
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat!

The trumpet's clangours pierce mine ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear;

Give me another horse," I cry,

Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly.
Whence is this rage? What spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?
'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war,
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And, pointing to the ensanguined field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon shield!

O! guide me from this horrid scene
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervours of the mid-day sun!
The pangs of absence, O! remove,
For thou canst place me near my love,
Canst fold in visionary bliss,

And let me think I steal a kiss.

When young-eyed Spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale :
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks;
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold;
At every season let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.

Joseph Warton.-Born 1722, Died 1800.

976.-TERRORS OF A GUILTY
CONSCIENCE.

Cursed with unnumber'd groundless fears,
How pale yon shivering wretch appears!
For him the daylight shines in vain,
For him the fields no joys contain ;
Nature's whole charms to him are lost,
No more the woods their music boast;
No more the meads their vernal bloom,
No more the gales their rich perfume:
Impending mists deform the sky,
And beauty withers in his eye.
In hopes his terrors to elude,
By day he mingles with the crowd,
Yet finds his soul to fears a prey,
In busy crowds and open day.
If night his lonely walks surprise,
What horrid visions round him rise!
The blasted oak which meets his way,
Shown by the meteor's sudden ray,
The midnight murderer's lone retreat
Felt heaven's avengeful bolt of late;.
The clashing chain, the groan profound,
Loud from yon ruin'd tower resound;
And now the spot he seems to tread,
Where some self-slaughter'd corse was laid,
He feels fix'd earth beneath him bend,
Deep murmurs from her caves ascend;
Till all his soul, by fancy sway'd,
Sees livid phantoms crowd the shade.

Thos. Blacklock.-Born 1721, Died 1791.

977. ODE TO AURORA.

Like all mankind, with vanity I'm bless'd, Conscious of wit I never yet possess'd. To strong desires my heart an easy prey, Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway.

This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my foe;
The next, I wonder why I should do so.
Though poor, the rich I view with careless
eye';

Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lie.
I ne'er for satire torture common sense;
Nor show my wit at God's nor man's expense.
Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown;
Wish well to all, and yet do good to none.
Unmerited contempt I hate to bear ;
Yet on my faults, like others, am severe.
Dishonest flames my bosom never fire;
The bad I pity, and the good admire ;
Fond of the Muse, to her devote my days,
And scribble-not for pudding, but for

snow,

Even to their sandall'd feet: a signet each, Each bears a polish'd staff, on whose smooth top

In bold relief some well-carved emblem stands,

Bird, fruit, or flower. Determined, though dismay'd,

Judea's mourning prisoners close the rear.
And now the unfolded gates on every side
Admit the splendid train, and to their eyes
A scene of rich magnificence display,
Censers, and cups, and vases, nicely wrought
In gold, with pearls and glittering gems
inlaid,

The furniture of Baal. An altar stands
Of vast dimensions near the central stone,
On which the god's high-priest strews frank-
incense,

In weight a thousand talents. There he drags

The struggling elders of the flock; while

near,

Stretch'd on a smaller plate of unmix'd gold, Bleed the reluctant lambs. The ascending smoke,

Impregnate with perfumes, fills all the air.

These rites perform'd, his votaries all advance

Where stands their idol; to compare with whom

Twice twenty feet he rises from the ground;
And every massy limb, and every joint,
Is carved in due proportion. Not one mine,
Though branching out in many a vein of
gold,

Sufficed for, this huge column. Him the priests

Had swept, and burnish'd, and perfumed with oils,

Essential odours. Now the sign is given,
And forthwith strains of mixed melody
Proclaim their molten thunderer; cornet,
flute,

Harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, unite
In loud triumphal hymn, and all at once
The King, the nations, and the languages
Fall prostrate on the ground. But not a
head,

But not one head in all thy faithful bands,
O Judah, bows. As when the full-orb'd

Again shall dawn, my vengeance shall be pour'd

On every head of their detested race."

He spake, and left the fane with hasty step,

Indignant. Him a thousand lords attend, The minions of his court. And now they reach

The stately palace. In a spacious hall, From whose high roof seven sparkling lustres hang,

Round the perpetual board high sofas ranged Receive the gallant chiefs. The floor is spread

With carpets, work'd in Babylonia's looms,
Exquisite art; rich vessels carved in gold,
In silver, and in ivory, beam with gems.
'Midst these is placed whate'er of massy

plate,

Or holy ornament, Nebassar brought

Such sound was heard, as when the roaring winds

Burst from their cave, and with impetuous rage

Sweep o'er the Caspian or the Chronian deep.

O'er the devoted walls the gate of heaven Thunder'd, a hideous peal; and, lo! a cloud

Came, darkening all the banquet, whence appear'd

A hand (if hand it were, or airy form, Compound of light and shade) on the adverse wall

Tracing strange characters. Belshazzar saw,
And trembled: from his lips the goblet fell:
He look'd again; perhaps it was a dream;
Thrice, four times did he look; and every
time

Still plainer did the mystic lines appear,
Indelible. Forthwith he summons all

The wise Chaldæans, who by night consult
The starry signs, and in each planet read
The dark decrees of fate. Silent they stand;
Vain are their boasted charms. With eager
step

Merodach's royal widow hastes to cheer

Her trembling son. "O king, for ever live; Why droops thy soul?" she cries; "what though this herd

Of sage magicians own their vanquish'd art, Know'st thou not Daniel ? In his heart resides

The spirit of holy Gods; 'twas he who told Thy father strange events, and terrible; Nor did Nebassar honour one like him

Through all his spacious kingdom. He shall

soon

Dispel thy doubts, and all thy fears ally." She spake, and with obeisance low retired. "Then be it so; haste, Arioch, lead him here,"

Belshazzar cries; "if he interpret right, Even though my soul in just abhorrence holds

His hated race, I will revoke their doom, And shower rich honours on their prophet's head."

Nor long he waited, when with graceful step,

And awe-commanding eye, solemn and slow, As conscious of superior dignity,

Daniel advanced. Time o'er his hoary hair Had shed his white snows. Behind him stream'd

A mantle, ensign of prophetic powers,
Like that with which inspired Elisha smote
The parting waters, what time on the bank
Of Jordan from the clouds a fiery car
Descended, and by flaming coursers drawn
Bore the sage Tishbite to celestial climes,
Maugre the gates of death. A wand he
bore-

That wand by whose mysterious properties
The shepherd of Horeb call'd the refluent

Still did the holy relic rest secure.

At length, when Babylonia's arms prevail'd,
Seraiah saved it from the flaming shrine,
With all the sacred wardrobe of the priest,
And bore it safe to Riblah. Dying there,
The priest bequeathed the sacred legacy
To Daniel. He, when summon'd to explain,
As now, God's dark decrees, in his right
hand

Brandish'd the mystic emblem. "Art thou he,

Art thou that Daniel, whom Nebassar brought

From Salem, whom the vanquish'd tribes adore,

In wisdom excellent ? Look there, look

there;

Read but those lines," the affrighted monarch cries,

"And clothed in scarlet wear this golden chain,

The third great ruler of my spacious realm."

He spake, and thus the reverend seer replied:

"Thy promises, and threats, presumptuous king,

My soul alike despises; yet, so wills