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O heaven-born sisters ! source of art!
Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?
When Athens sinks by fates unjust,
And Athens rising near the pole!
Ye gods ! what justice rules the ball ?
state ! Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.
O tyrant Love! hast thou possest
Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,
Which nature hath imprest?
The mild and generous breast ?
Love's purer flames the gods approve;
Brutus for absent Portia sighs,
What is loose love? a transient gust,
And burn for ever one ;
Productive as the sun.
O source of every social tie,
What various joys on one attend,
Whether his hoary sire he spies,
What home-felt raptures move !
With reverence, hope, and love.
Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises,
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine!
Sacred Hymen ! these are thine.
EPISTLE TO ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND
PREFIXED TO PARNELL'S POEMS.
Such were the notes thy once lov'd poet sung, Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, just beheld and lost! admir'd and mourn’d! With softest manners, gentlest arts, adorn’d ! Bless’d in each science ! bless'd in every strain! Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear—in vain!
For him thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For Swift and him despis’d the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great, Dexterous the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleas'd to 'scape from flattery to wit.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear (A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear); Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days, Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays; Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate, Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great; Or deeming meanest what we greatest call, Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.
And sure if aught below the seats divine Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine ;
A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried,
In vain to deserts thy retreat is made;
the cell, When the last lingering friend has bid farewell. E’en now she shades thy evening walk with bays (No hireling she, no prostitute to praise); E’en now, observant of the parting ray, Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day, Through fortune's cloud one truly great can see, Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he.
EPISTLE TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.
SECRETARY OF STATE.
A soul as full of worth as void of pride,