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False Julius, ambush'd in this fair disguise,
Soon made the Roman liberties his prize.

No mask in basest minds Ambition wears,
But in full light pricks up her ass's ears:
All I have sung are instances of this,
And prove my theme unfolded not amiss.

Ye vain! desist from your erroneous strife;
Be wise and quit the false sublime of life.
The true ambition there alone resides,
Where justice vindicates, and wisdom guides;
Where inward dignity joins outward state,-
Our purpose good, as our achievement great;
Where public blessings public praise attend;
Where glory is our motive, not our end.

Wouldst thou be famed? Have those high deeds in view
Brave men would act, though scandal should ensue.
Behold a prince! whom no swoln thoughts inflame;
No pride of thrones, no fever after fame:

But when the welfare of mankind inspires,
And death in view to dear-bought glory fires,
Proud conquests then, then regal pomps delight;
Then crowns, then triumphs sparkle in his sight;
Tumult and noise are dear, which with them bring
His people's blessings to their ardent king.
But when those great heroic motives cease,
His swelling soul subsides to native peace;
From tedious grandeur's faded charms withdraws,
A sudden foe to splendour and applause ;
Greatly deferring his arrears of fame,
Till men and angels jointly shout his name.
O pride celestial! which can pride disdain;
O blest ambition! which can ne'er be vain.

From one famed Alpine hill, which props the sky,
In whose deep womb unfathom❜d waters lie,
Here burst the Rhone and sounding Po; there shine,
In infant rills, the Danube and the Rhine;
From the rich store one fruitful urn supplies,
Whole kingdoms smile, a thousand harvests rise.

In Brunswick such a source the Muse adores,
Which public blessings through half Europe pours.
When his heart burns with such a god-like aim,
Angels and George are rivals for the fame;
George, who in foes can soft affections raise,
And charm envenom'd satire into praise.

*

Nor human rage alone his power perceives, But the mad winds, and the tumultuous waves. Even storms (Death's fiercest ministers!) forbear, And, in their own wild empire, learn to spare. Thus Nature's self, supporting man's decree, Styles Britain's sovereign, "sovereign of the sea." While sea and air, great Brunswick ! shook our state, And sported with a king's and kingdom's fate, Deprived of what she loved, and press'd with fear Of ever losing what she held most dear, How did Britannia, like Achilles, weep, And tell her sorrows to the kindred deep; Hang o'er the floods, and, in devotion warm, Strive for thee with the surge, and fight the storm! What felt thy Walpole, pilot of the realm? Our Palinurus slept not at the helm ; His eye ne'er closed; long since inured to wake, And out-watch every star, for Brunswick's sake: By thwarting passions toss'd, by cares oppress'd, He found the tempest pictured in his breast. But now what joys that gloom of heart dispel, No powers of language but his own can tell; His own, which Nature and the Graces form At will to raise or hush the civil storm.

ADVANTAGES OF VIRTUE.
ALL's on the party of the virtuous man :
The good will surely serve him, if they can;
The bad, when interest and ambition guide,
And 't is at once their interest and their pride:
But should both fail to take him to their care,
He boasts a Greater Friend, and both may spare.
Letters to man uncommon light dispense;
And what is virtue but superior sense?

In parts and learning you who place your pride,
Your faults are crimes, your crimes are double-dyed.
'Tis harder far to please than give offence;
The least misconduct damns the brightest sense :
Each shallow pate, that cannot read your name,
Can read your life, and will be proud to blame.
Flagitious manners make impressions deep
On those that o'er a page of Milton sleep.

* The king in danger by sea.

331

SELECTIONS FROM GRAY.

THE BARD.

A PINDARIC ODE.

I.

"RUIN seize thee, ruthless king!
Confusion on thy banners wait!
Though fann'd by conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!"
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:

"To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,

Robed in the sable garb of woe,

With haggard eyes the poet stood,

Loose his beard, and hoary hair

Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air,—

And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

66

'Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave,

Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!

O'er thee, O king! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

That hush'd the stormy main;

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy

Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

bed:

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head.

On dreary Arvon's shore* they lie,

The shores of Carnarvonshire opposite to the Isle of Anglesea.

Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof the' affrighted ravens sail :
The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art!
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-
No more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,

I see them sit, they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:

With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

II.

W
eave the
warp, and weave the woof,
The winding sheet of Edward's race:
Give ample room and verge enough
The characters of Hell to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The shrieks of death, through Berkeley's roof that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing king!

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,

That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs

The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait!
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined;
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

"Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,

Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warrior fled? *

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising morn.

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm

In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ;

*Edward the Black Prince died some time before his father.

Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,

That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

“Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare:

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:

Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,*

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
And through the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,
And spare the meek usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined with her blushing foe we spread :
The bristled boar in infant-gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, brothers, bending o'er the' accursed loom,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III.

"Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun)

Half of thy heart we consecrate.

(The web is wove.

The work is done.)'

Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn!
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll!
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.

All hail, ye genuine kings; + Britannia's issue, hail!

"Girt with many a baron bold,

Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

*Ruinous civil wars of York and Lancaster.

+ Both Merlin and Taliessin had prophesied, that the Welsh should regain their sovereignty over this island; which seemed to be accomplished in the house of Tudor.

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