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 tissued 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 mingled sons allied,
Throw'st the prattling page
aside:

To me in converse sweet impart,
To read in man the native art,

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,

To dream in her enchanted school;
Thou, heaven, whate'er of great we boast,
Hast blest this social science most.

Retiring hence to thoughtful cell, As Fancy breathes her potent spell, Not vain she finds the charmful task, In pageant quaint, in motley mask; Behold, before her musing eyes, The countless Manners round her rise; While ever varying as they pass, To some Contempt applies her glass: With these the white-rob'd Maids combine, And those the laughing Satyrs join! 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!
O Humour, thou whose name is known,
To Britain's favour'd isle alone:

Me too amidst thy band admit,

There where the young eyed healthful Wit,
(Whose jewels in his crisped hair

Are plac'd each other's beams to share,
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos'd attends thy side!

By old Miletus* who so long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern shades:

By him, whose Knight's distinguish'd name

Refin'd a nation's lust of fame;

Whose tales even now, with echoes sweet,

Castilia's Moorish hills repeat:

Or him, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplore,

In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore,

Alluding to the Milesian tales, some of the earliest romances.

The Milesian and Tuscan romances were by no means distinguished for humour; but as they were the models of that species of writing in which humour was afterwards employed, they are, probably, for that reason only, mentioned here.-L.

+ Cervantes.

Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1747.

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Who drew the sad Sicilian maid,
By virtues in her sire betrayed:

O Nature boon, from whom proceed
Each forceful thought, each prompted deed;
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!

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;

*The Story of Blanche (see Gil Blas, b. 2, ch. 4,) has more to do with the high passions than with manners.-B.

By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,

From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound,
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful heart,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power,

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings,

In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair-
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd,

A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
'Twas sad by fits, by starts, 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
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