The patriot-passion that shall strongly feel, Ardent, and glowing with undaunted zeal; With lips of fire fall plead his country's cause, And vindicate the majesty of laws. This cloth'd with Britain's thunder spread alarms Thro' the wide earth, and shake the pole with armsgThat, to the founding lyre his deeds rehearse, Enshrine his name in some immortal verle, To long posterity his praiso consign, And pay a life of hardships by a line. While others, consecrate to higher aims, Whose hallow'd bosoms glow with purer flames, Love in their heart, perfuafion in their tongue, With words of peace shall charm the lift'ning throng, Draw the dread veil that wraps th' eternal throne, And launch our souls into the bright unknown.

MRS. BARBAULD

Thy mien composod, thy even pace.
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,

And chaste subdu'd delight.

No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet

To find thy hermit cell;
Where in some pure and equal sky
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye

The modest Virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic veft,
And Innocence with candid breaft

And clear undaunted eye;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair op'ning thro’ this vale of tears

A vista to the sky.

There Health, thro' whose calm bofom glide
The temperate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek

To meet the offer'd blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet;
Innur'd to toil and bitter bread,
"He bow'd h's meek submitted head,

And kiss'd thy fainted feet.

But

But thou, oh nymph, retir'd and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy

To tell thy tender tale?
The lowlieft children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet blossom round,

And lily of the vale.

O say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy power,

And court thy gentle sway?
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,

And shed thy milder day.

When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,

And every storm is laid ;
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whispering through the shade.

Mrs. BARBAULD.

CHAP. XIII.

ODE TO F E AR.

HOU, to whom the world unknown
With all its shadowy shapes is shown,
Who seeft appallid th' unreal scene,
While Fancy lifts the veil between :
Ah, Fear ! ah, frantic Fear !
I see, I see thee near.

I know thy hurried ftep, thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly;
For lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fix'd' behold?
Who ftalks his round and hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm,
Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep;
And with him thousand phantoms join'd,
Who prompt to deeds accurs’d the mind :
And those, the fiends, who near allied,
O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks preside;
While Vengeance, in the lurid air,

Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare:
. On whom that ravening brood of Fate,

Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait :
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?

Thou who such weary lengths hast past,
Where wilt thou reft, mad Nymph, at last?
Say, wilt thou throud in haunted cell,
Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell:
Or in some hollow'd seat,
'Gainst which the big waves beat,
Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought?
Dark power! with shuddering meek submitted thought,
Be mine, to read the visions old,
Which thy awakening bards have told,
And, left thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each ftrange tale devoutly true ;

Ne'er

Ne'er be I found, by thee o'er 'aw'd,
In that thrice hallowed eve abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leavé,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen!
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men !

O thou whose spirit most possest
The sacred seat of Shakespeare's breast

' !
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine émotions spoke !
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel :
His cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, O.Fear! will dwell with thee.

COLLINS.

CHAP. XIV.

ODE TO TRUTH. SAY,

AY, will no white-rob'd Son of Light, Swift darting from his heav'nly height, Here deign to take his hallow'd stand ;

Here wave his amber locks; unfold

His pinions cloth'd with downy gold; Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand ?

And you, ye host of Saints ! for ye have known Each dreary paih in Life's perplexing maze,

circle yon 'eternal throne With harpings high of inexpressive praise,

Will not your train descend in radiant state, To break with Mercy's beam this gathering cloud of Fate?

Tho' now ye