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At thy command it shoots and springs,
Or where the rich Sabeans reign,
O ye nurses of soft dreams,
Sound his praise, by whom ye rose,
O ye immortal woods and groves, Which th' enamour'd student loves; Beneath whose venerable shade, For thought and friendly converse made, Fam'd Hecadem, old hero, lies, Whose shrine is shaded from the skies,
And through the gloom of silent night
Omen, monster, prodigy,
Life or death, his mind's at rest,
Since what thou send'st must needs be best.
No evil can from thee proceed:
"Tis only suffer'd, not decreed;
Fantastic forms the air invade,
Can we forget thy guardian care, Slow to punish, prone to spare! Thou break'st the haughty Persian's pride, That dar'd old ocean's power deride; Their shipwrecks strew'd the Eubean wave, At Marathon they found a grave. O ye blest Greeks, who there expir'd, For Greece with pious ardour fir'd, What shrines or altars shall we raise To secure your endless praise? Or need we monuments supply, To rescue what can never die!
And yet a greater hero far, (Unless great Socrates could err) Shall rise to bless some future day, And teach to live, and teach to pray. Come, Unknown Instructor, come! Our leaping hearts shall make thee room: Thou with Jove our vows shalt share; Of Jove and Thee we are the care.
O Father, King, whose heavenly face Shines serene on all thy race,
We thy magnificence adore,
THE AFRICAN SLAVES.
WHY droops this heart with fancy'd woes forlorn? Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky? What pensive crowds, by ceaseless labours worn, What myriads wish to be as bless'd as I?
What tho' my roofs devoid of pomp arise,
Nor tempt the proud to quit his destin'd way! Nor costly art my flow'ry dales disguise,
Where only simple friendship deigns to stray!
See the wild sons of Lapland's chill domain,
Slave tho' I be, to Delia's eyes a slave,
See the poor native quit the Lybian shores,
Ah! not in love's delightful fetters bound; No radiant smile his dying peace restores, Nor love, nor fame, nor friendship, heals his wound.
Let vacant bards display their boasted woes;
On the wild beach, in mournful guise he stood,
Yet the Muse listen'd to the plaints he made, Such moving plaints as nature could inspire; To me the Muse his tender plea convey'd,
But smooth'd and suited to the sounding lyre.