V.

This sure is Beauty's happiest part:
This gives the most unbounded sway :
This shall enchant the subject heart
When rose and lily fade away;
And she be still, in spite of time,
Sweet Amoret in all her prime.

ODE IX.

AT STUDY.

I.

WHITHER did my fancy stray?
By what magic drawn away

Have I left my studious theme?

From this philosophic page,
From the problems of the sage,

Wandering through a pleasing dream?

II.

'Tis in vain, alas! I find,

Much in vain, my zealous mind

Would to learned Wisdom's throne

Dedicate each thoughtful hour:

Nature bids a softer power

Claim some minutes for his own.

III.

Let the busy or the wise

View him with contemptuous eyes;

Love is native to the heart:

Guide its wishes as you will,
Without Love you'll find it still
Void in one essential part.

IV.

Me though no peculiar fair
Touches with a lover's care;

Though the pride of my desire
Asks immortal friendship's name,
Asks the palm of honest fame,
And the old heroic lyre;

V.

Though the day have smoothly gone,
Or to letter'd leisure known,

Or in social duty spent;

Yet at eve my lonely breast

Seeks in vain for perfect rest;

Languishes for true content.

ODE X.

TO THOMAS EDWARDS, ESQ.: ON THE LATE EDITION OF MR. POPE'S WORKS. 1751.15

I.

BELIEVE me, Edwards, to restrain
The license of a railer's tongue

Is what but seldom men obtain
By sense or wit, by prose or song;
A task for more Herculean powers,

Nor suited to the sacred hours

Of leisure in the Muse's bowers.

II.

In bowers where laurel weds with palm,
The Muse, the blameless queen, resides:
Fair Fame attends, and Wisdom calm
Her eloquence harmonious guides:
While, shut for ever from her gate,
Oft trying, still repining, wait
Fierce Envy and calumnious Hate.

III.

Who then from her delightful bounds
Would step one moment forth to heed
What impotent and savage sounds
From their unhappy mouths proceed?
No: rather Spenser's lyre again
Prepare, and let thy pious strain
For Pope's dishonour'd shade complain.

IV.

Tell how displeas'd was every bard,
When lately in the Elysian grove
They of his Muse's guardian heard,
His delegate to fame above;

And what with one accord they said
Of wit in drooping age misled,
And Warburton's officious aid:

V.

How Virgil mourn'd the sordid fate
To that melodious lyre assign'd

Beneath a tutor who so late

With Midas and his rout combin'd

By spiteful clamour to confound
That very lyre's enchanting sound,
Though listening realms admir'd around:

VI.

How Horace own'd he thought the fire

Of his friend Pope's satiric line
Did farther fuel scarce require
From such a militant divine:

How Milton scorn'd the sophist vain
Who durst approach his hallow'd strain
With unwash'd hands and lips profane.

VII.

Then Shakespeare debonair and mild
Brought that strange comment forth to view;
Conceits more deep, he said and smil'd,
Than his own fools or madmen knew:
But thank'd a generous friend above,
Who did with free adventurous love
Such pageants from his tomb remove.

VIII.

And if to Pope, in equal need,
The same kind office thou wouldst pay,
Then, Edwards, all the band decreed
That future bards with frequent lay
Should call on thy auspicious name,
From each absurd intruder's claim
To keep inviolate their fame.

ODE XI.

TO THE COUNTRY GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. 1758.16

I.

WHITHER is Europe's ancient spirit fled? Where are those valiant tenants of her shore, Who from the warrior bow the strong dart sped, Or with firm hand the rapid pole-axe bore? Freeman and Soldier was their common name. Who late with reapers to the furrow came, Now in the front of battle charg'd the foe; Who taught the steer the wintry plough to endure, Now in full councils check'd encroaching power, And gave the guardian Laws their majesty to know.

II.

But who are ye? from Ebro's loitering sons
To Tiber's pageants, to the sports of Seine;
From Rhine's frail palaces to Danube's thrones
And cities looking on the Cimbric main,
Ye lost, ye self-deserted? whose proud lords
Have baffled your tame hands, and given your
swords

To slavish ruffians, hir'd for their command: These at some greedy monk's or harlot's nod : See rifled nations crouch beneath their rod : These are the Public Will, the Reason of the land

III.

Thou, heedless Albion, what, alas! the while
Dost thou presume? O inexpert in arms,