English

AN ODE .

Glittring in the morning dew,
Painted by celestial light,
Nature's beauties meet the view,
O'er the virent landscape bright.

Hill and dale and shady grove,
Smile, illumin'd by the day,
And the azure sky above,
Shines, magnificently gay.

Now, the tuneful choir of Spring
Breathe melodious love around;

Worthy of adoration, Thee,
O Lord our God, we praise;
To Thee our hymn we raise,
" Holy, Holy, " ceaselessly.
To laud Thee doth conspire
All earth and honour most
With the angelic host
In their celestial choir.
Worthy of adoration, Thee
We Cherubim do sing,
Archangels' voices ring,
" Holy, Holy, " ceaselessly.

Whilst ev'ry grove that decks the rural scene,
Re-echoes with the note of tuneful spleen,
And fair M ELISSA , languid and opprest,
Sighs with the surfeit of unwelcome rest;
The wretched C LARA — hapless and forlorn,
With diff'rent cares, and sharper grief is torn!
Oh, had I stay'd in some sequester'd spot —
" The world forgetting — by the world forgot: "
Oh, had this form, in vain with jewels deckt,
Been humbly, meanly clad, in apron checkt;
In russet gown, with homely cap array'd,

How long, fair maid! shall I complain,
And always seek thy smiles in vain?
How can my heart such usage bear?
When ev'ry frown creates despair!
Sweet maid! did'st thou ere find untrue
The heart that now addresses you?
Why am I hateful in thy sight,
Since once I was thy chief delight?
Return then, wand'rer , to my arms,
And let me gaze upon thy charms;
'Tis this shall turn my night to day;
Haste then, Louisa, why delay?
But if thou can'st not me relieve,
Forbear my charmer to deceive;

Knights of God, for you we wait,
You who fighting met your fate
For the Christ, the Lord of Heaven.
From all evil are you free,
Holy are you certainly:
Unto him who in such conflict
Dies eternal peace is given.

Thanks, lovely friend — a silent tear
My grateful rapture speaks;
'Tis all my bankrupt love can spare;
'Tis all Louisa seeks,

Now, oh! ye gods! propitious prove,
Take dear Louisa's part;
Breathe, warmly breathe, my faithful love,
On Delia's soft'ning heart.

And thou, my charmer, goddess, saint,
Oh! lend a pitying ear;
I urge no more my spurn'd complaint,
I urge Louisa's pray'r.

I urge her pleading tenderness,
Her pity, and her truth;
Examples meet for thee to trace,

Sweet is thy cadence to the ear of Woe,
As music stealing thro' the gloom of night;
And richly deck'd, thy living pictures glow
With Painting's softest tints and purest light,
In matchless Poesy can thus unite
The rival Arts, with mingling charms divine,
And all their tuneful pow'r, sweet bard, is thine!
Thy pensive lay the captive soul beguiles,
And graces Woe with more than Pleasure's smiles.
Pale Sorrow views her soften'd image there,
And almost loves a form that looks so fair!

Let conscious Vanity her robes admire,

What lovely form, in fun'ral weeds array'd,
Glides in deep silence thro' the solemn shade?
— Th' inverted anchor, and the drooping wing,
Declares 'tis Hope, and whence her sorrows spring:
— Still may she turn, soft maid, her languid eyes,
And meet her heav'n-born sister in the skies!

Alas! he's gone! — nor Sense, with Taste combin'd,
The gentlest manners, with the firmest mind,
Nor polish'd Eloquence, nor artless Truth,
Cou'd save the virtuous, the lamented youth!
Alas — in vain, to foreign climes remov'd,

What fond deluding hopes our foes beguile
To dream in cells of conquest o'er this isle;
Because her sons unite in freedom's cause,
And watch, like guardians, o'er their country's laws;
In earnest zeal with ministers debate,
In senates, to preserve our happy state;
To fix the pow'r of kings in proper bounds,
Lest arbitrary rule the realm confounds:
Such are the tenets of each British soul,
Whose arms the tyrants of the world controul.
Let Fontenoy declare! whose troops beheld
Our army reap the glory of the field,

Forbear, kind Sir, forbid your tears to flow:
Since Delia's false, she is not worth a tear:
Quench the fierce flame, forget it e'er did glow
With ardent love — thy breast is too sincere.

Gentle she's not, nor constant as the dove,
But proud and fickle as the restless wind;
Her breast ne'er felt the pangs of injur'd love,
And Plutus only govern'd Delia's mind.

Tear from thy breast with scorn the venom'd dart,
Send it the fair whose bosom beats so cold;
Tell her it was the victim of a heart