Let snowy Algidum's wide valleys feed,
Beneath their stately holme, and spreading oak,
Or the rich herbage of Albania's mead,

The steer, whose blood on lofty shrines shall smoke!
Red may it stain the Priest's uplifted knife,
And glut the higher powers with costly life!

The rosemary and myrtle's simple crown

Thou on our household Gods, with decent care, Art gently placing; and they will not frown;

No stern demand is theirs, that we prepare Rich flocks, and herds, at duty's solemn call, And, in the pomp of slaughter, bid them fall.

O! if an innocent hand approach the shrine,
The little votive cake it humbly lays,
The crackling salt, that makes the altar shine,
Flung on the cheerful sacrificial blaze,

To the mild Lares shall be grateful found

As the proud steer, with all his garlands crown'd.

то

MELPOMENE.

BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE THIRD.

Nor he, O Muse! whom thy auspicious eyes

In his primeval hour beheld,

Shall victor in the Isthmian contest rise;

Nor o'er the long-resounding field Impetuous steeds his kindling wheels shall roll, Gay in th' Olympic race, and foremost at the goal.

Nor in the Capitol, triumphant shown,

The victor-laurel on his brow,

For cities storm'd, and vaunting kings o'erthrown ;But Tibur's streams, that warbling flow,

And groves of fragrant gloom, resound his strains, Whose sweet Æolian grace high celebration gains.

Now that his name, her noblest Bards among,
Th' imperial city loudly hails,

That proud distinction guards his rising song,
When Envy's carping tongue assails;

In sullen silence now she hears his praise,
Nor sheds her canker'd spots upon his springing bays.

O Muse! who rulest each melodious lay

That floats along the gilded shell, Who the mute tenant of the watry way

Canst teach, at pleasure, to excel

The softest note harmonious sorrow brings,
When the expiring swan her own sad requiem sings,—

Thine be the praise, that pointing Romans guide
The Stranger's eye with proud desire

That well he note the man, whom crowds decide
Should boldly string the Latian lyre.

Ah! when I charm, if still to charm be mine,
Nymph of the warbling shell, be all the glory Thine!

ΤΟ

WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esq.

BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE SEVENTH, IMITATED.

THE

snows dissolve, the rains no more pollute, Green are the sloping fields, and uplands wide, And green the trees luxuriant tresses shoot, And, in their daisied banks, the shrinking rivers glide.

Beauty and Love the blissful change have hail'd,
While, in smooth mazes, o'er the painted mead,
Aglaia ventures, with her limbs unveil❜d,
Light thro' the dance each Sister-Grace to lead.

But O! reflect, that sport, and beauty, wing
Th' unpausing hour!—if Winter, cold and pale,
Flies from the soft, and violet-mantled Spring,
Summer, with sultry breath, absorbs the vernal gale.

1. 7. Aglaia-The eldest of the Graces.

Reflect, that Summer-glories pass away

When mellow Autumn shakes her golden sheaves; While she, as Winter reassumes his sway,

Speeds, with disorder'd vest, thro' rustling leaves.

But a short space the moon illumes the skies;
Yet she repairs her wanings, and again
Silvers the vault of night;-but no supplies,
To feed their wasting fires, the lamps of life obtain.

When our pale forms shall pensive vigils keep
Where COLLINS, AKENSIDE, and SHENSTONE roam,
Or quiet with the Despot, JOHNSON, sleep,
In that murk cell, the body's final home,

To senseless dust, and to a fleeting shade
Changes the life-warm being!—Ah! who knows
If the next dawn our eye-lids may pervade?
Darken'd and seal'd, perchance, in long, and last re-
pose.

When vivid thought's unceasing force assails,
It shakes, from life's frail glass, the ebbing sands;
Their course run out, ah! what to us avails
Our fame's high note, tho' swelling it expands!

Reflect, that each convivial joy we share
Amid encircling Friends, with grace benign,