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The ruin, with a silent tear revolves
The fame and fortune of imperious Rome.

You too, O nymphs, and your unenvious aid
The rural powers confess ; and still prepare
For you their choicest treasures. Pan commands,
Oft as the Delian king with Sirus holds
The central heavens, the father of the grove
Commands his Dryads over your abodes
To spread their deepest umbrage. Well the god
Remembereth how indulgent ye supp ied
Your general dews to nurse them in their prime.

Pales, the pasture's queen, where'er ye stray,
Pursues your steps, delighted; and the path
With living verdure clothes. Around your haunts
The laughing Chloris, with profusest hand,
Throws wide her blooms, her odours.

Still with you Pomona seeks to dwell : and o'er the lawns, And o'er the vale of Richmond, where with Thames Ye love to wander, Amalthea pours Well-pleas'd the wealth of that Ammonian horn, Her dower ; unmindful of the fragrant isles Nysæan or Atlantic. Nor canst thou, (Albeit oft, ungrateful, thou dost mock The beverage of the sober Naiad's urn, O Bromius, O Lenæan) nor canst thou Disown the powers whose bounty, ill repaid, With nectar, feeds thy tendrils. Yet from me, Yet, blameless nymphs, from my delighted lyre, Accept the rites your bounty well may claim, Nor heed the scoffings of the Edonian band. For better praise awaits you. Thames, your sire, As down the verdant slope your duteous rills Descend, the tribute stately Thames receives, Delighted; and your piety applauds ; And bids his copious tide roll on secure, For faithful are his daughters; and with words Auspicious gratulates the bark, which now His banks forsaking, her adventurous wings Yield to the breeze, with Albion's happy gifts Extremest isles to bless. And oft at morn, When Hermes, from Olympus bent o'er earth To hear the words of Jove, on yonder hill

Stoops lightly-sailing; oft intent your springs He views : and waving o'er some new-born stream His blest pacific wand, “ And yet,” he cries, Yet,” cries the son of Maia, “though recluse And silent be your stores, from you, fair nymphs, “ Flows wealth and kind society to men. By you my function and

my

honour'd name Do I possess; while o'er the Bætic vale, “ Or through the towers of Memphis, or the palms

By sacred Ganges water'd, I conduct The English merchant: with the buxom fleece « Of fertile Ariconium while I clothe “ Sarmatian kings; or to the household gods Of Syria, from the bleak Cornubian shore, “ Dispense the mineral treasure which of old “ Sidonian pilots sought, when this fair land “ Was yet unconscious of those generous arts " Which wise Phænicia from their native clime “ Transplanted to a more indulgent heaven.”

Such are the words of Hermes : such the praise, O Naiads, which from tongues celestial waits Your bounteous deeds. From bounty issueth power: And those who, sedulous in prudent works, Relieve the wants of nature, Jove repays With noble wealth, and his own seat on earth, Fit judgments to pronounce, and curb the might Of wicked men. Your kind unfailing urns Not vainly to the hospitable arts Of Hermes yield their store. For, O ye nymphs, Hath he not won the unconquerable queen Of arms to court your friendship? You she owns The fair associates who extend her sway Wide o'er the mighty deep; and grateful things Of you she uttereth, oft as from the shore Of Thames, or Medway's vale, or the green banks Of Vecta, she her thundering navy leads To Calpe's foaming channel, or the rough Cantabrian surge ; her auspices divine Imparting to the senate and the prince Of Albion, to dismay barbaric kinys, The Iberian, or the Celt. The pride of kings Was ever scorn'd by Pallas : and of old

Rejoic'd the virgin, from the brazen prow
Of Athens o'er Ægina's gloomy surge,
To drive her clouds and storms ; o'erwhelming all
The Persian's promis'd glory, when the realms
Of Indus and the soft Ionian clime,
When Libya's torrid champain and the rocks
Of cold Imaüs join’d their servile bands,
To sweep the sons of liberty from earth.
In vain : Minerva on the bounding prow
Of Athens stood, and with the thunder's voice
Denounc'd her terrors on their impious heads,
And shook her burning ægis. Xerxes saw :
From Heracleum, on the mountain's height
Thrond in his golden car, he knew the sign
Celestial; felt unrighteous hope forsake
His faultering heart, and turn'd his face with shame.

Hail, ye who share the stern Minerva's power ;
Who arm the hand of liberty for war:
And give to the renown'd Britannic name
To awe contending monarchs; yet benign,
Yet mild of nature : to the works of

peace
More prone, and lenient of the many ills
Which wait on human life. Your gentle aid
Hygeia well can witness, she who saves,
From poisonous cates and cups of pleasing bane,
The wretch devoted to the entangling snares
Of Bacchus and of Comus. Him she leads
To Cynthia's lonely haunts. To spread the toils,
To beat the coverts, with the jovial horn
At dawn of day to summon the loud hounds,
She calls the lingering sluggard from his dreams:
And where his breast may drink the mountain breeze,
And where the fervor of the

sunny

vale
May beat upon his brow, through devious paths
Beckons his japid courser.

Nor when ease,
Cool ease and welcome slumbers have becalm'd
His eager bosom, does the queen of health
Her pleasing care withhold. His decent board
She guards, presiding; and the frugal powers
With joy sedate leads in : and while the brown
Ennæan dame with Pan presents her stores ;
While changing still, and comely in the change,

Vertumnus and the hours before him spread
The garden's banquet : you to crown his feast,
To crown his feast, О Naiads, you the fair
Hygeia calls: and from your shelving seats,
And groves of poplar, plenteous cups ye bring,
To slake his veins : till soon a purer tide
Flows down those loaded channels: washeth off
The dregs of luxury, the lurking seeds
Of crude disease ; and through the abodes of life
Sends vigour, sends repose. Hail, Naiads: hail,
Who give, to labour, health; to stooping age,
The joys which youth had squander'd. Oft your urns
Will l'invoke: and, frequent in your praise,
Abash the frantic Thyrsus with my song.

For not estrang'd from your benignant arts
Is he, the god, to whose mysterious shrine
My youth was sacred, and my votive cares
Belong; the learned Pæon. Oft when all
His cordial treasures he hath search'd in vain ;
When herbs, and potent trees, and drops of balm
Rich with the genial influence of the sun,
(To rouse dark fancy from her plaintive dreams,
To brace the nerveless arm, with food to win
Sick appetite, or hush the unquiet breast
Which pines with silent passion) he in vain
Hath prov'd; to your deep mansions he descends,
Your gates of humid rock, your dim arcades,
He entereth; where impurpled veins of ore
Gleam on the roof; where through the rigid mine
Your trickling rills insinuate. There the god
From your indulgent hands the streaming bowl
Wafts to his pale-ey'd suppliants; wafts the seeds
Metallic, and the elemental salts
Wash'd from the pregnant glebe. They drink : and

soon

Flies pain ; fies inauspicious care : and soon
The social haunt or unfrequented shade
Hears lo, lo Pæan ; as of old,
When Python fell. And, O propitious nymphs!
Oft as for helpless mortals I implore
Your salutary springs, through every urn
O shed your healing treasures. With the first

And finest breath, which from the genial strife
Of mineral fermentation springs, like light
O'er the fresh morning's vapours, lustrate then
The fountain, and inform the rising wave.

My lyre shall pay your bounty. Scorn not ye
That humble tribute. Though a mortal hand
Excite the strings to utterance, yet for themes
Not unregarded of celestial powers,
I frame their language ; and the muses deign
To guide the pious tenor of my lay.
The muses (sacred by their gifts divine)
In early days did to my wondering sense
Their secrets oft reveal : oft my rais'd ear
In slumber felt their music: oft at noon
Or hour of sunset, by some lonely stream,
In field or shady grove, they taught me words
Of power from death and envy to preserve
The good man's name. Whence yet with grateful

mind, And offerings unprofan'd by ruder eye, My vows I send, my homage, to the seats Of rocky Cirrha, where with you they dwell: Where you their chaste companions they admit Through all the hallow'd scene: where oft intent, And leaning o'er Castalia's mossy verge, They mark the cadence of your confluent urns, How tuneful, yielding gratefullest repose To their consorted measure : till again, With emulation all the sounding choir, And bright Apollo, leader of my song, Their voices through the liquid air exalt, And sweep their lofty strings: those powerful strings That charm the mind of gods: that fill the courts Of wide Olympus with oblivion sweet Of evils, with immortal rest from cares : Assuage the terrors of the throne of Jove; And quench the formidable thunderbolt Of unrelenting fire. With slackend wings While now the solemn concert breathes around, Incumbent o'er the sceptre of his lord Sleeps the stern eagle; by the number'd notes, Possess'd; and satiate with the melting tope:

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