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Where is the dread prophetic heat, With which my bosom wont to beat? Where all the bright mysterious dreams

Of haunted groves and tuneful streams, That woo'd my genius to divinest themes ?


Say, goddess, can the festal board,
Or young Olympia's form ador'd:
Say, can the pomp of promis'd fame
Relume thy faint, thy dying flame?
Or have melodious airs the power
To give one free, poetic hour?
Or, from amid the Elysian train,

The soul of Milton shall I gain,
To win thee back with some celestial strain ?


O powerful strain, O sacred soul!
His numbers every sense controul:
And now again my bosom burns;
The muse, the muse herself, returns.
Such on the banks of Tyne, confess’d,
I hail the fair immortal guest,
When first she seal'd me for her own,

Made all her blissful treasures known,
And bade me swear to follow her alone.

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No, foolish youth-To virtuous fame
If now thy early hopes be vow'd,
If true ambition's nobler flame
Command thy footsteps from the crowd,
Lean not to love's enchanting snare ;

His songs, his words, his looks beware, Nor join his votaries, the young and fair.


By thought, by dangers, and by toils,
The wreath of just renown is worn;
Nor will ambition's awful spoils
The flowery pomp,

of ease adorn :
But love unbends the force of thought;

By love unmanly fears are taught; And love's reward with gaudy sloth is bought.


Yet thou hast read in tuneful lays,
And heard from many a zealous breast,
The pleasing tale of beauty's praise
In wisdom's lofty language dress'd;
Of beauty powerful to impart

Each finer sense, each comelier art,
And sooth and polish man's ungentle heart.


If then, from love's deceit secure,
Thus far alone thy wishes tend,
Go; see the white-wing'd evening hour
On Delia's vernal walk descend:
Go, while the golden light serene,

The grove, the lawn, the soften'd scene,
Becomes the presence of the rural queen.


Attend, while that harmonious tongue
Each bosom, each desire commands:
Apollo's lute by Hermes strung
And touch'd by chaste Minerva's hands,
Attend. I feel a force divine,

O Delia, win my thoughts to thine;
That half the colour of thy life is mine.


Yet, conscious of the dangerous charm,
Soon would I turn my steps away ;
Nor oft provoke the lovely harm,
Nor lull my reason's watchful sway.

But thou, my friend--I hear thy sighs :

Alas, I read thy downcast eyes; And thy tongue fauters; and thy colour flies.


So soon again to meet the fair?
So pensive all this absent hour?

- yet, unlucky youth, beware,
While yet to think is in thy power.
In vain with friendship's flattering name

Thy passion veils its inward shame; Friendship, the treacherous fuel of thy flame!


Once I remember, new to love,
And dreading his tyrannic chain,
I sought a gentle maid to prove
What peaceful joys in friendship reign,
Whence we forsooth might safely stand,

And pitying view the love-sick band,
And mock the winged boy's malicious hand.


Thus frequent pass'd the cloudless day,
To smiles and sweet discourse resign'd;
While I exulted to survey
One generous woman's real mind :
Till friendship soon my languid breast

Each night with unknown cares possess’d, Dash'd my coy slumbers, or my dreams distress’d.


Fool that I was!- And now, even now
While thus I preach the Stoic strain,
Unless I shun Olympia's view,
An hour unsays it all again.
O friend !-when love directs our eyes
To pierce where every passion lies,
here is the firm, the cautious, or the wise

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TO-NIGHT retir'd the

queen of heaven With young Endymion strays: And now to Hesper is it given A while to rule the vacant sky, Till she shall to her lamp supply

A stream of lighter rays.


O Hesper! while the starry throng

With awe thy paths surrounds, Oh listen to my suppliant song, If haply now the vocal sphere Can suffer thy delighted ear

To stoop to mortal sounds.


So may the bridegroom's genial strain!

Thee still invoke to shine : So may the bride's unmarried train To Hymen chaunt their flattering vow, Still that his lucky torch may glow

With lustre pure as thine.


Far other vows must I prefer

To thy indulgent power, Alas! but now I paid my tear On fair Olympia's virgin tomb: And lo, from thence, in quest I roam

Of Philomela's bower,

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Propitious send thy golden ray,

Thou purest light above :
Let no false flaine seduce to stray
Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm :
But lead where music's healing charm

May sooth afficted love.


To them, by many a grateful song

In happier seasons vow'd,
These lawns, Olympia's haunt, belong :
Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd,
Or fix d, while Philomela talk’d,

Beneath yon copses stood,


Nor seldom where the beechen boughs

That roofiess tower invade,
We come while ber enchanting muse
The radiant moon above is held:
Till by a clamorous owl compellid

She fled the solemn solemn shade.


But hark; I hear her liquid tone,

Now Hesper, guide my feet Down the red marl with moss o'ergrown, Through yon wild thicket next the plain, Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane

Which leads to her retreat.


See the green space ; on either hand

Enlarg'd it spreads around:
See, in the mist she takes her stand,
Where one old oak his awful shade
Extends o'er balf the level mead

Enclos'd in woods profound.

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