WHERE famed Parnassus' lofty summits rise,
With garlands wreathed, and seem to prop the skies,
There bloomed the groves, where once the tuneful choir
In boldest numbers waked the sounding lyre.
Fast by the mount descends the sacred spring,
Whose magick waters taught the world to sing.
Hence men, inspired, first tuned the rural strain,
And sung of shepherds and the peaceful plain,
The beauteous virgin and Idalian grove,
And all the pains and all the sweets of love;
But soon the Muse, with glowing rapture fired,
Seized the bold clarion, and the world inspired;
To arms, to arms, resounds from either pole,
Steels every breast, and man's each daring soul.
Wide Havock reigned; the world with tumult shook;
Thick lightnings glared, and muttering thunders broke;
The boisterous passions waged continual wars;
The sun grew pale, and terror seized the stars.
But, hark! soft musick floats upon the gale!
'Tis Harmony herself, who chants the tale!
A strain so sweet, so elegantly terse,
Joined with such lofty majesty of verse,
Arrests Apollo's song-enraptured ear,
A nobler carol, than his own, to hear.
The astonished muses cease their feebler song;
No more the tabor charms the village throng;
The aërial tribe in air suspend their wings;
All Nature's hushed; for lo, Philenia sings!
Philenia sings, and sings the soldier's toil,
Blest with the lovely virgin's generous smile.
The bards of old, who sung of wars and loves,
Of iron ages, and Arcadian groves,
Around Philenia's brow the laurel twine,
And vie in honouring genius so divine.
Hence, if in after age a bard should hope
To gain those tints which grace the verse of Pope;
In Sorrow's gently sympathizing flow,
To make each bosom feel another's woe;
Or Virtue's heavenly portrait to display,
In the full light of beauty's golden ray;
To sing of patriots in the martial strife,
The gallant soldier and heroick chief ;
To paint in colours that can never fade
Let him invoke Philenia to his aid,
Her smile shall bid these varied charms expand,
As vernal flowers by gentlest zephyrs fanned.
In her bold lines may admiration see
Impartial Justice rule the fair decree.
Not, like the sun, whose lustre shines on all,
Do her diffusive panegyricks fall.
While Faction's idols meet repulsive shame,
The wandering outcasts from the dome of Fame;
The patriot glories in his laurel crown,
Decked with the deathless verdure of renown.
To adulation's fawning scribes belong,
With guile to captivate the giddy throng;
To rend from Honour's brow his laureat plume;
To trample down the generous stateman's tomb;
To gild with servile Flattery's dazzling beam,
The imperial meteor of a baseless dream.
But when Philenia charms the listening throng,
"Tis Virtue's praise inspires the noble song.
Her Muse, who oft her venturous bark had rode,
On Learning's wide, immeasurable flood,
Whose crowded canvass touched at every shore,
New mines of golden letters to explore;
In Fancy's loom Pierian webs hath wrought,
Decked with the varied pearls of splendid thought;
Perennial roses round the work appear,
And all the beauties of the vernal year.
She, like a Newton, in poetick skies,
Shall e'er on Fame's triumphant pinions rise.
When Death's cold slumbers shall have sealed that eye, Whose radiant smiles with solar splendours vie ;
When that warm tongue, from which such musick flows, Shall in the tomb in quietude repose;
Thy deathless name through Envy's clouds shall burst, And baffle hoary Time's corroding rust.
Then those fair portraits, which thy muse has drawn,
Which the long gallery of Fame adorn,
Through Nature's fated barriers shall break,
Start into life, and all thy praises speak.
ALL hail, divine Compassion! see
Low at thy shrine, my bended knee!
Lend to my verse thy melting glow,
And all the tender plaintiveness of woe!
The man who feels when others grieve,
And loves the wretched to relieve,
Enjoys more true delight,
Than he, who in the fields of war
Triumphant rolls his thundering car,
And gains the laurels of the fight!
Than he, whom shouting realms proclaim,
The victor of mankind, the boast of Fame.
Sweet Compassion! noblest friend;
From thy native skies descend;
Gently breathing through the heart,
All thy tender warmth impart!
Lure us from the gloomy cell,
Where Indifference loves to dwell!
Come with Truth, celestial maid,
In her brightest robes arrayed;
And with Bliss, delightful prize,
Blessing our enraptured eyes!
Behold! the heavens of heavens unbar Their golden portals wide;
In glory clad, thy train appear;
Upon the spheres they ride.
Pleased with a Howard's glorious fame,
Thou comest from realms above,
To kindle at his tomb the flame
To crown with wreaths of endless bloom,
And joy, that never fades,
The man, whose heavenly paths illume
Misfortune's dreary shades.
Welcome, on earth, thy golden reign!
Now hideous vice, and tottering pain
Shall quickly flee away.
As hills of snow in face of day
In winter their high heads display;
But, melted by the vernal beams,
Their mass dissolves in liquid streams:
So by thy genial ray
Inspired, the frozen cheek of woe
Shall feel soft Rapture's pleasing glow,
And tears of joy around the world shall flow.
TRANSLATED FROM OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.
WHEN Faith and Honesty with willing hand,
Swayed the blest sceptre of the smiling land,
Then bloomed the Golden Age; then all mankind
Beneath the bowers of sweet content reclined,
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