ODE TO SCIENCE.*

O, HEAVENLY born! in deepest dells
If fairest science ever dwells

Beneath the mossy cave;

Indulge the verdure of the woods,
With azure beauty gild the floods,
And flowery carpets lave.

For, melancholy ever reigns
Delighted in the sylvan scenes
With scientific light;

While Dian, huntress of the vales,
Seeks lulling sounds and fanning galés,
Though wrapt from mortal sight.

Yet, goddess, yet the way explore
With magic rites and heathen lore
Obstructed and depress'd:
Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine,
Untaught, not uninspir'd, to shine,
By Reason's power redress'd.

When Solon and Lycurgus taught,
To moralize the human thought
Of mad opinion's maze,

To erring zeal they gave new laws,
Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause
That blends congenial rays.

This is written in the same style, and with the same design, as his "Love Song in the modern Taste." H.

Bid bright Astræa gild the morn,
Or bid a hundred suns be born,
To hecatomb the year;

Without thy aid, in vain the poles,
In vain the zodiac system rolls,
In vain the lunar sphere.

Come, fairest princess of the throng,
Bring sweet philosophy along,
In metaphysic dreams;

While raptur'd bards no more behold

A vernal age of purer gold,

In Heliconian streams.

Drive Thraldom with malignant hand,

To curse some other destin'd land,

By Folly led astray;

Ierne bear on azure wing;

Energic let her soar, and sing
Thy universal sway.

So, when Amphion bade the lyre
To more majestic sound aspire,
Behold the madding throng,
In wonder and oblivion drown'd,
To sculpture turn'd by magic sound,
And petrifying song.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY.

MARCH 13, 1726-7.

THIS day, whate'er the Fates decree,
Shall still be kept with joy by me:
This day then let us not be told,
That you are sick, and I grown old;
Nor think on our approaching ills,
And talk of spectacles and pills;
To-morrow will be time enough
To hear such mortifying stuff.
Yet, since from reason may be brought
A better and more pleasing thought,
Which can, in spite of all decays,
Support a few remaining days;
From not the gravest of divines
Accept for once some serious lines.

Although we now can form no more Long schemes of life, as heretofore; Yet you, while time is running fast, Can look with joy on what is past.

Were future happiness and pain A mere contrivance of the brain; As atheists argue, to entice And fit their proselytes for vice; (The only comfort they propose, To have companions in their woes) Grant this the case; yet sure 'tis hard That virtue, styl'd its own reward, And by all sages understood To be the chief of human good,

Should acting die; nor leave behind
Some lasting pleasure in the mind,
Which, by remembrance, will assuage
Grief, sickness, poverty, and age;
And strongly shoot a radiant dart
To shine through life's declining part.
Say, Stella, feel you no content,
Reflecting on a life well spent?
Your skilful hand employ'd to save
Despairing wretches from the grave;
And then supporting with your store
Those whom you dragg'd from death before?
So Providence on mortals waits,
Preserving what it first creates.
Your generous boldness to defend
An innocent and absent friend;

That courage which can make you just
To merit humbled in the dust;

The detestation you express
For vice in all its glittering dress;
That patience under torturing pain,
Where stubborn stoics would complain :
Must these like empty shadows pass,
Or forms reflected from a glass?
Or mere chimeras in the mind,
That fly, and leave no marks behind ?
Does not the body thrive and grow
By food of twenty years ago?
And, had it not been still supplied,
It must a thousand times have died.
Then who with reason can maintain
That no effects of food remain ?
And is not virtue in mankind

The nutriment that feeds the mind;

Upheld by each good action past,
And still continued by the last ?
Then, who with reason can pretend
That all effects of virtue end?

Believe me, Stella, when you show
That true contempt for things below,
Nor prize your life for other ends,
Than merely to oblige your friends;
Your former actions claim their part,
And join to fortify your heart.
For Virtue, in her daily race,

Like Janus, bears a double face;

Looks back with joy where she has gone,
And therefore goes with courage on:
She at your sickly couch will wait,
And guide you to a better state.

O then, whatever Heaven intends,
Take pity on your pitying friends!
Nor let your ills affect your mind,
To fancy they can be unkind.
Me, surely me, you ought to spare,
Who gladly would your suffering share;
Or give my scrap life to you,
And think it far beneath your due
You, to whose care so oft I owe
That I'm alive to tell you so.