HORACE IN LONDON.

BOOK I. ODE XVII.

Velox amænum sæpe Lucretilem, &c.

TO LAURA.

THE Wood-nymphs crown'd with vernal flowers, Who roam thro' Tempe's classic bowers,

And sport in gambols antic;

If e'er they quit their native vales,
Will find around my cot in Wales,
A region more romantic.

Green pastures girt with pendant rock,
Along whose steep my snowy flock,
Adventurously wanders;

Impending shrubs, and flowers that gleam,
Reflected in the chrystal stream,

Which thro' the scene meanders;

In sylvan beauty charm the eyes,
While no ungracious sounds arise,
Of misery or anger;

The song of birds and insects' hum,
Are never broken by the drum,

Or trumpet's brazen clangor.

If sleeping Echo start to mark
The matin carols of the lark,

Or sounds of early labour;
Again she seeks her calm retreat;
Till evening calls her to repeat

The shepherd's pipe and tabors
Whene'er I woo the Muse serene,
Her magic smile illumes the scene,
And brighter tints discloses.
But e'en the Muse's chaplet fades,
Unless the hand of Cupid braids
Her myrtle with his roses.
Haste then, my Laura, to my bower,
And let us give the fleeting hour

To plenty, love, and pleasure:
Where wanton boughs an arbour wreathe,
I to thy melting harp will breathe
My amatory measure.

Let not the town your soul enthral,
The crowded rout and midnight ball,
Those penalties of fashion:

If nature still have power to please,
Oh! hither fly to health and ease,
And crown a poet's passion.

No jealous fears shall curb your mind,
Here shall no spirit be confin'd,
By prejudic'd opinion.
My Laura here a queen shall be,
From all controul and bondage free,
Save Cupid's soft dominion.

THE ROSE.

FROM BERNARD

NURS'D by the Zephyr's balmy sighs,
And cherish'd by the tears of Morn;
Oh flower of flowers! unfold-arise!
O haste, delicious Rose, be born!
Unheeding wish! no-yet awhile,
Be yet awhile thy dawn delay'd;
Since the same hour that sees thee smile
In orient bloom, shall see thee fade.

Cecilia thus, an opening flower,

Must withering droop at heaven's decree;
Like her thou bloom'st thy little hour,
And she, alas! must fade like thee.

But go-and on her bosom die;

At once thy throne and blissful tomb ;
While envious heaves my secret sigh,
To share with thee so sweet a doom.

Love shall thy graceful bent advise,
Thy blushing tremulous tints reveal ;
Go, bright yet hurtless, charm her eyes;
Go, deck her bosom, not conceal.

* Charlotte Smith has given an elegant imitation of this little Ode, but has erroneously ascribed it to the Cardinal Bernis, E.

Should some bold hand invade thee there,
From Love's asylum rudely torn;
O Rose, a lover's vengeance bear,
And let my rival feel thy thorn.

C. A. ELTON.

ANACREONTIC *.

FROM THE GERMAN.

THE poet loves the generous wine,
And if the bard sings well,
For him shall bud the purple vine,
For him her sparkling juice refine,
And fairest clusters swell.

The gentle poet loves the fair,
And loves her without art;
The mother hears the poet's prayer,
The fairest maiden bends her ear,
And yields the bard her heart.
Oh could a wish successful prove,
The poet's lot were mine;
For stars and ribbands far above,
And far o'er gold, o'er crowns, I love
The maidens and the wine.

The original was written extempore, by a young poet, while listening to the distant song of the vine-dressers. It is adapted to the tune which prompted the effusion. The reader may find i In the Athenæum for March, 1807.

ODE.

BY MR. SHAW.

O THOU whose patient foot has strain'd To climb this hill with side so green, When now thy step its brow has gain'd,

From which the distant vales are seen, Here rest and trace, nor trace in yain, The various prospect of the plain. Lo where majestic on that side

A city fam'd thy look requires, Proud of her wealth, she stretches wide Her stately domes and lofty spires, Vain, that within her ample bound The seat of mighty kings is found. O stranger, if the lust of gold

Allures thee from thy native bower, Or if it be thy wish to hold

A place among the sons of power; Haste to those walls, there wilt thou find What most is suited to thy mind.

But art thou of those happier few,
Whose soul the Muses have possest,
Who shun the madness of the crew,

With innocence and health to rest? Turn from those stately towers thy face, And on this side the prospect trace.