At thy command it shoots and springs,
And a thousand blessings brings.
Minerva, only is thy mind,
Wisdom, and bounty to mankind.
The fragrant thyme, the bloomy rose,
Herb, and flow'r, and shrub that grows
On Thessalian Tempe's plain,

Or where the rich Sabeans reign,
That treat the taste, or smell, or sight,
For food, for med'cine, or delight;
Planted by thy parent care,
Spring, and smile, and flourish there.

O ye nurses of soft dreams,
Reedy brooks, and winding streams,
Or murm'ring o'er the pebbles sheen,
Or sliding through the meadows green,
Or where through matted sedge you creep,
Travelling to your parent deep;

Sound his praise, by whom ye rose,
That sea, which neither ebbs nor flows.

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
Projects from far its trembling light.
You, whose roots descend as low,
As high in air your branches grow;
Your leafy arms to heaven extend,
Bend your heads, in homage bend:
Cedars, and pines, that wave above,
And the oak belov'd of Jove.

Omen, monster, prodigy,
Or nothing are, or Jove from thee!
Whether various nature play,
Or re-invers'd thy will obey,
And to rebel man declare
Famine, plague, or wasteful war.
Laugh, ye profane, who dare despise
The threat'ning vengeance of the skies,
Whilst the pious, on his guard,
Undismay'd is still prepar'd:

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;
Darkness is not from the sun,
Nor mount the shades till he is gone:
Then does night obscene arise
From Erebus, and fill the skies;

Fantastic forms the air invade,
Daughters of nothing and of shade.

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,
And thy well-known aid implore;
Nor vainly for thy help we call;
Nor can we want; for thou art all!

ELEGY

ON

THE AFRICAN SLAVES.

SHENSTONE.

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,
That scoop their couch beneath the drifted snows!
How void of hope they ken the frozen plain,
Where the sharp east for ever, ever blows!

Slave tho' I be, to Delia's eyes a slave,
My Delia's eyes endear the bands I wear;
The sigh she causes well becomes the brave,
The pang she causes 'tis ev'n bliss to bear.

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;
Shall I the mockery of grief display?
No! let the Muse his piercing pangs disclose,
Who bleeds and weeps his sum of life away!

On the wild beach, in mournful guise he stood,
Ere the shrill boatswain gave the hated sign;
He dropp'd a tear unseen, into the flood,
He stole one secret moment to repine.

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.