The oral tale of elder time rehearse,

And chant the rude, traditionary verfe;

With those, the lov'd companions of his youth, 70 When life was luxury, and friendship truth.

Ah! why fhould Virtue dread the frowns of Fate? Hers what no wealth can win, no power create! A little world of clear and cloudlefs day,

Nor wreck'd by ftorms, nor moulder'd by decay; 75 A world, with MEMORY'S ceafelefs fun-fhine bleft, The home of Happiness, an honest breast.

But moft we mark the wonders of her reign, When Sleep has lock'd the fenfes in her chain. When fober Judgment has his throne resign'd,

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She fmiles away the chaos of the mind;

And, as warm Fancy's bright Elyfium glows,

From Her each image fprings, each colour flows. She is the facred guest! the immortal friend!

Oft feen o'er fleeping Innocence to bend,

In that dead hour of night to Silence giv❜n,
Whispering feraphic visions of her heav'n.

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When the blithe fon of Savoy, roving round
With humble wares and pipe of merry found,
From his green vale and shelter'd cabin hies,
And scales the Alps to vifit foreign skies;

Tho' far below the forked lightnings play,
And at his feet the thunder dies away,

Oft, in the faddle rudely rock'd to fleep,

While his mule browses on the dizzy steep,

With MEMORY's aid, he fits at home, and fees

His children fport beneath their native trees,

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And bends, to hear their cherub-voices call,

O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fall.

But can her fmile with gloomy Madness dwell? 100

Say, can fhe chase the horrors of his cell?

Each fiery flight on Frenzy's wing restrain,
And mould the coinage of the fever'd brain?
Pafs but that grate, which fcarce a gleam fupplies,
There in the duft the wreck of Genius lies! 105
He, whose arrefting hand fublimely wrought
Each bold conception in the sphere of thought;
Who from the quarried mafs, like PHIDIAS, drew
Forms ever fair, creations ever new!

But, as he fondly snatch'd the wreath of Fame, 110

The spectre Poverty unnerv'd his frame.

Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore;

And Hope's foft energies were felt no more.

Yet ftill how fweet the foothings of his art! 17

From the rude ftone what bright ideas start! 115 Ev'n now he claims the amaranthine wreath,

With scenes that glow, with images that breathe!

And whence these scenes, these images, declare. Whence but from Her who triumphs o'er despair?

Awake, arife! with grateful fervour fraught, 120 Go, fpring the mine of elevated thought. He who, thro' Nature's various walk, furveys The good and fair her faultlefs line pourtrays; Whofe mind, prophan'd by no unhallow'd gueft, Culls from the crowd the pureft and the beft; 125 May range, at will, bright Fancy's golden clime, Or, mufing, mount where Science fits fublime,

Or wake the spirit of departed Time.

Who acts thus wifely, mark the moral muse,

A blooming Eden in his life reviews!

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So richly cultur'd every native grace,

Its fcanty limits he forgets to trace:

But the fond fool, when evening fhades the sky,
Turns but to ftart, and gazes but to figh!

The weary wafte, that lengthen'd as he ran,

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Fades to a blank, and dwindles to a span!

Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind,

By truth illumin'd, and by tafte refin'd?

When Age has quench'd the eye and clos'd the ear,

Still nerv'd for action in her native sphere,

Oft will fhe rife with fearching glance pursue

Some long-lov'd image vanish'd from her view;

Dart thro' the deep receffes of the past,

O'er dufky forms in chains of flumber caft;

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