CHAP. XIV.

ODE TO TRUTH.

SAY, 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 fmiling ftretch his tutelary wand?

And you, ye hoft of Saints, for ye have known
Each dreary path in Life's perplexing maze,
Though now ye circle yon eternal throne,
With harpings high of inexpreffive praise,
Will not your train defcend in radiant state,
To break with Mercy's beam this gathering cloud of Fate?
'Tis filence all. No Son of Light

Darts fwiftly from his heav'nly height:

No train of radiant Saints defcend.
"Mortals, in vain ye hope to find,
If guilt, if fraud has stain'd your mind,
Or Saint to hear, or Angel to defend.”

So TRUTH proclaims. I hear the facred found
Burft from the centre of her burning throne:

Where aye fhe fits with star wreath'd luftre crown'd: A bright Sun clafps her adamantine zone.

So TRUTH proclaims: her awful voice I hear:
With many a folemn pause it slowly meets my ear.

"Attend, ye Sons of Men; attend, and say,
Does not enough of my refulgent ray
Break through the veil of your mortality?
Say, does not reason in this form defcry

Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that furpafs

The Angel's floating pomp, the Seraph's glowing grace?

Shall

Shall then your earth-born daughters vie
With me? Shall fhe, whofe brightest eye

But emulates the diamond's blaze,

Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom,
Whose breath the hyacinth's perfume,

Whofe melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays,
Shall the be deem'd my rival? Shall a form
Of elemental drofs, of mould'ring clay,

Shall

Vie with these charms imperial? The poor worm
prove her contest vain. Life's little day
Shall pafs, and she is gone; while I appear

Flush'd with the bloom of youth through Heav'n's eternal

year.

"Know, Mortals know, ere firft ye fprung,
Ere first these orbs in æther hung,
I shone amid the heav'nly throng;
Thefe eyes beheld Creation's day,
This voice began the choral lay,

And taught archangels their triumphant fong.
Pleas'd I furvey'd bright Nature's gradual birth,
Saw infant Light with kindling luftre spread,
Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth,
And Ocean heave on its extended bed;

Saw the tall pine afpiring pierce the sky,
The tawny lion ftalk, the rapid eagle fly.

"Laft, Man arofe, erect in youthful grace, Heav'n's hallow'd image ftamp'd upon his face ; And, as he rofe, the high beheft was given That I alone, of all the host of Heav'n, Should reign Protectress of the godlike Youth :' Thus the Almighty fpake: he fpake and call'd me TRUTH." MASON.

CHAP. XV.

ODE TO FANCY.

PARENT of each lovely mufe,
Thy fpirit o'er my foul diffufe,
O'er all my artlefs fongs prefide,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no coftly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flow'rs and honey from the rock.
O Nymph with loosely flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bofom bare,
Thy waift with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy fnowy hand

An all commanding magic wand;
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens grow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren fnow.
Whofe rapid wings thy flight convey
Through air, and over earth and fea,
While the various landscape lies
Confpicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say in what deep and pathlefs vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's fide,
'Midft falls of water you refide,
'Midít broken rocks, a rugged fcene,
With green and graffy dales between,
'Midft foreft dark of aged oak,

Ne'er echoing with the woodman's ftroke,
Where never human art appear'd,

Nor e'en one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,
Where Nature feems to fit alone,

Majestic on a craggy throne;

Tell

Tell me the path, fweet wand'rer tell,
To thy unknown, fequefter'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and mofs o'erlay the floor,
And on whofe top a hawthorn blows,
Amid whole thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale ftill builds her nest,
Each ev'ning warbling thee to reft :
Then lay me by the haunted ftream,
Wrapt in fome wild, poetic dream,
In converfe while methinks I rove
With Spenfer through a fairy grove;
Till fuddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd mufic in my ear,
And my glad foul in blifs is drown'd,
By the fweetly foothing found!

Me, Goddefs, by the right hand lead,
Sometimes through the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace refort,
And Venus keeps her feftive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each ev'ning meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rofe-lip'd Hebe leads,
Where Echo walks fteep hills among,
Lift'ning to the shepherd's fong.

Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy
Can long my penfive mind employ:
Hafte, Fancy, from these scenes of fully
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,

That loves to fold her arms and figh!
Let us with filent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of wo,

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To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each fad night fome Virgin comes,
With throbbing breaft, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to feek;
Or to fome Abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where to avoid cold winter's fhow'rs,
The naked beggar fhiv'ring lies,
Whilft whiftling tempefts round her rife,
And trembles left the tott'ring wall
Should on her fleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder ftrike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire,
I feel, I feel, with fudden heat,
My big tumultuous bofom beat!
The trumpet's clangors pierce mine ear,
A thoufand widows' fhrieks I hear ;
Give me another horfe!' I cry,
Lo! the bafe Gallic fquadrons fly;
Whence is this rage?What fpirit, fay,
To battle hurries me away?

"Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,

Transports me to the thickest war,

There whirls me o'er the hills of flain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead:
Where giant Terrour ftalks around,
With fullen joy furveys the ground,
And, pointing to th' enfanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon shield!

O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-arch'd walks and alieys green,
Which lovely Laura feeks, to fhun
The fervours of the mid-day fun;

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