Thy fhrine in fome religious wood,
O foul-enforcing Goddess, stood!
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celeftial meet:
Tho' now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-treffed Dane,
Or Roman's felf o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heaven-left age it fell,
"Twere hard for modern fong to tell.
Yet still, if truth those beams infuse,
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light-embroider'd sky:
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous Model ftill remains.
There happier than in islands bleft,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe dreft,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their conforted Druids fing
Their triumphs to th' immortal ftring.
How may the poet now unfold,
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn delighted, and amaz'd,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd?
Even now, before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride it seems to rife!
Yet Grecia's graceful orders join,
Majestic thro' the mix'd defign;
The fecret builder knew to chufe,
Each sphere-found gem of richeft hues :
Whate'er heaven's purer mold contains,
When nearer funs emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the Patriot's fight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, grav'd with fome prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame thro' every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureate band,
That near her inmoft altar ftand!
Now footh her, to her blifsful train
Blithe Concord's focial form to gain :
Concord, whofe myrtle wand can steep
Even Anger's blood-fhot eyes in fleep:
Before whose breathing bofom's balm,
Rage drops his fteel, and ftorms grow calm;
Her let our fires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd fhore,
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding found,
The nations fhout to her around,
O how fupremely art thou bleft,
Thou, Lady, thou shalt rule the weft:
ΤΟ A LADY, ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL
CHARLES ROSS IN THE ACTION AT FONTENOY,
Hile, loft to all his former mirth,
Britannia's genius bends to earth,
And mourns the fatal day :
While ftain'd with blood he strives to tear
Unfeemly from his fea-green hair
The wreaths of cheerful May:
The thoughts which musing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the foften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's defcending wave
His country's vows fhall blefs the grave,
Where'er the youth is laid :
That facred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf fhall bind,
O'er him, whofe doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial form's shall fit at eve,
And bend the penfive head!
And, fallen to fave his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's awful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!
The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their fainted reft:
And, half-reclining on his fpear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.
Old Edward's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall croud from Creffy's laurell'd field,
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