Each fiery flight on Frenzy's wing restrain,

And mould the coinage of the fever'd brain?

Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam supplies,

There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies!

He, whose arresting hand sublimely wrought

Each bold conception in the sphere of thought;

Who from the quarried mass, like PHIDIAS, drew

Forms ever fair, creations ever new!

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

The spectre Poverty unnerv'd his frame.

Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore;

And Hope's soft energies were felt no more.

Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art! *
From the rude stone what bright ideas start!

E'en 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, arise! with grateful fervor fraught,

Go, spring the mine of elevating thought.
He who, thro' Nature's various walk, surveys
The good and fair her faultless line pourtrays;
Whose mind, prophan'd by no unhallow'd guest,
Culls from the crowd the purest and the best;
May range, at will, bright Fancy's golden clime,
Or, musing, mount where Science sits sublime,

Or wake the spirit of departed Time.

Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral muse,

A blooming Eden in his life reviews!

So rich the culture, tho' so small the space,

Its scanty limits he forgets to trace:

But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky,

Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh! y

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

Fades to a blank, and dwindles to a span!

Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind,

By truth illumin'd, and by taste 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 she rise-with searching glance pursue

Some long-lov'd image vanish'd from her view;
Dart thro' the deep recesses of the past,

O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast;
With giant-grasp fling back the folds of night,
And snatch the faithless fugitive to light.

So thro' the grove the impatient mother flies,
Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries;

Till the light leaves the truant boy disclose,

Long on the wood-moss stretch'd in sweet repose

Nor yet to pleasing objects are confin'd

The silent feasts of the reflecting mind.
Danger and death a dread delight inspire;

And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire,

When, richly bronz'd by many a summer-sun,

He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were done.

Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious pile; And ask the shatter'd hero, whence his smile?

Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich, go;
And own what raptures from Reflection flow.

Hail, noblest structures imag'd in the wave!

A nation's grateful tribute to the brave.

Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail!

That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail.

E

Long have ye heard the narratives of age,

The battle's havoc, and the tempest's rage;
Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray
Gild the calm close of Valour's various day.

Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece,

Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease:

A softer tone of light pervades the whole,

And steals a pensive languor o'er the soul.

Hast thou thro' Eden's wild-wood vales pursued

Each mountain-scene, magnificently rude;

To mark the sweet simplicity of life,

Far from the din of Folly's idle strife:

Nor, with Attention's lifted eye, rever'd

That modest stone which pious PEMBROKE rear'd;

Which still records, beyond the pencil's power,

The silent sorrows of a parting hour;