Imatges de pÓgina
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• Ye sea-green daughters of the flood,

< Old OCEAN'S NEREID line.

. So shall they to this threaten'd place

« A barrier firm extend,

And shores their shade was wont to grace,

« Their thunder shall defend.' '

EPITAPH

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WHEN

HEN Pomp, when Wealth, when Great

ness sink to dust,
Though Vanity adorn the splendid bust,
Sincerer drops of tributary woe
O'er the lone urn of modeft Merit flow.

And tears as true as e'er embalm'd the dead

Shall D'AUSSEY! o'er thy humble tomb be shed,
For though thy frugal temper ne'er supplied
The selfish calls of Luxury and Pride,
Yet Pity's gentle voice thy heart pursu'd,
And felt the Luxury of doing good,
While Want reliev'd by filent bounties given,
Wafts with her grateful prayers thy soul to heaven.

Sent

Sent to MR. H A Y L EY, on reading his

EPISTLES on EPIC POETRY.

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Nor this the Syren note of flattering praise, Or the fond tribute partial friendship pays;

А

A voice unknown to fame, to thee unknown,

But wak'd by thy superior worth alone,

Attempts, perhaps with too officious zeal,

Thy thoughts awhile from higher cares to steal,
And in presumptuous numbers dares essay
To hail the glories of thy matchless lay.

O faireft hope of Britain's tuneful Choir! Why yield to other hands the Epic Wire ?

Say who of all her Bards like thee shall fwell

To strains of extasy th' Heroic shell ?
When the long series of connecting rhime.
Denies the raptur’d flight or march sublime
Who shall the interval so well beguile

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Or when the notes from Freedom's clarion blown

Chill the pale Despot on his trembling throne,
What manly son of Britain's warbling throng
Shall join the Puan with so bold a fong? :!,:/
And if inventive Fancy love to stray
'Mid the wild tracts of Fi&ion's faery way,
Say who shall mate those magic powers that

stole

The nightly vision o'er Serena's soul?

Then let, illustrious Bard!-though rude her

voice,

A Muse of humble mien divert thy choice.

With timid hand snatch no reflected

grace

From the sweet * Maniac of HESPERIAN race.

Since Genius' keenest rays thy bosom fire

O strike with natiye force the BRITISH Lyre,

* Dante.

That

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