THE MANNERS,

AN ODE.

FAREWELL, for clearer ken design'd,
The dim-discover'd tracts of mind;
Truths which, from action's paths retir'd,
My silent search in vain requir'd!

No more my sail that deep explores ;
No more I search those magic shores;
What regions part the world of soul,
Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll:
If e'er I round such fairy field,

Some power impart the spear and shield,
At which the wizzard Passions fly;
By which the giant Follies die!

Farewell the porch whose roof is seen
Arch'd with th' enlivening olive's green :
Where Science, prank'd in tissu'd vest,
By Reason, Pride, and Fancy, drest,
Comes, like a bride, so trim array'd,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's shade!

Youth of the quick uncheated sight, Thy walks, Observance, more invite!

O thou who lov'st that ampler range,

Where life's wide prospects round thee change,
And, with her mingling sons allied,
Throw'st the prattling page aside,
To me, in converse sweet, impart
To read in man the native heart;

To learn, where Science sure is found,
From nature as she lives around;
And, gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each shifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious lore
Reverse the lessons taught before;
Alluring from a safer rule,

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To dream in her enchanted school:

Thou, Heaven, whate'er of great we boast,
Hast blest this social science most.

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Retiring hence to thoughtful cell, As Fancy breathes her potent spell, Not vain she finds the charmful task, In pageant quaint, in motley mask;

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Behold, before her musing eyes,

But who is he whom now she views,

In robe of wild contending hues?

Thou by the Passions nurs'd, I greet
The comic sock that binds thy feet!

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By old Miletus3, who so long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song;
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,

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O Nature boon, from whom proceed

Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;

a

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Alluding to the Milesian tales, some of the earliest rob Cervantes.

mances.

c Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable Adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745.

If but from thee I hope to feel,

On all my heart imprint thy seal!

Let some retreating cynic find

Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind:
The Sports and I this hour agree,

To rove thy scene-full world with thee!

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THE PASSIONS,

AN ODE FOR MUSIC.

(WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting:
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;

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Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why,

Ev'n at the sound himself had made.

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