English

Hail antient Greece! the sacred earth,
That gave to bards and heroes birth,
Where arts and virtue were combin'd
To perfect and adorn the mind.
'Twas there great Homer pour'd along
The majesty of epic song;
To him all nature stood consest,
And heav'nly genius warm'd his breast;
He gave to future writers law
And from his copious source they draw.
There history receiv'd its form
Taught by Herodotus to charm;
Thucydides with manly rage,
And nervous sense inform'd its page.
The drama there learn'd to impart

Lingring delayes, slacke payments doe foreshowe,
Better no promise, then no performance:
Sleight are the sorrowes, slakte with comforts slowe,
Eyther sende, or ende, yeelde some assurance.
Shyfting delaye, mislyking oft doth breede,
They soone denye, whose Suters slowly speede.

The shallow streames, doe murmour more then deepe,
And Cowards bragge, that dares no weapons prooue:
Those Dogs byte least, that greatest barkings keepe,
Some do but fayne, whose shewes seeme farre in loue.
Sounde is the Tree, whence friendships fruite doth spring,
Doe or be still , let none but Syrens sing.

The rose is sweet no longer red,
And virtue charms though beauty's fled.

On thanklesse Friend, whose trauayle is imployde,
With Asses Damme shall reape ingratefull meede:
Whose wanton Fole by her sweete mylke acloyde,
Oft kicks the Nurse, that doth it choycely feede.
As doe the Vipers broode, whose yongling long,
When mothers care with tender loue hath cherisht:
Requite the same with such vngratefull wrong,
That in rewarde, her lyfe by them is perisht.
Whose Nature is vnkindly to deuoure,
The wombe whence fyrst they tooke their lyuing powre.
To whom we may the vngratefull forte compare,

Pleasant it is, although the woods are brown,
And trees grow thin and bare, and flowers are few,
Fearless of sweeping mist or dripping dew,
To wander through lone fields away from town,
When Phaebus palely doffs his glorious crown;
And bedded is the Lark; and the Cuckoo
Is still; and nothing stirs, but shadows of dark hue;
Or the last leaves autumnal winds have strown;
Or the belated Bee, who bustles home
With his late gleanings, too much tired to sing;
Or mouse-like Bat, that flaps his sooty wing;

You say I'm thin — And what of that?
How seldom is a poet fat!

In various climes, beyond the pow'rs of Art,
Still lib'ral Nature plays her friendly part.
Britannia's clime, her plenteous soil may boast,
And her fair garden decks Italia's coast!
Ev'n sultry India owns her lib'ral care,
And fragrant plants perfume the conscious air.
Nor thou, oh Scotland! mourn thy dreary lot,
Nor deem thy niggard clime was quite forgot:
What tho' thy shaggy cliffs and desart plain,
Seem widely spread in Sorrow's sad domain;
What tho' thy trav'ller dreads the piercing blast,

Of those the poet who commend,
How very few there are befriend;
But, while his stomach food demands,
With barren bays you fill his hands;
And, bread refusing to his claim,
You starve him first, then give him fame.

All eyes that see are poring on the West,
Where the rich-tressed traveller of the day
(Though faded are the splendours which he drest
At morning in, when fresh he took the way
That wearied him, in the bright affluence
Of orient pomp) still showeth glorious
As a proud prince returned from fields victorious,
But silent in his pride — 'tis so intense! —
Now he is gone, lone Silence thinks his praise;
Pale, pensive Evening weepeth his decease;
And there's an awful stillness — as of death,