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Coy Nymph of this salubrious fount,
Who many an age unpriz'd,

Didst waste thine urn adown the mount,
Unnotic'd and despis'd,

'Till youthful, but discerning eyes,
Remark'd thy modest worth,

Bade the neat edifice arise,

And led thee falt'ring forth.

How like a timid village maid, New-rais'd from mean abode,

Thy silent waters meek obey'd,

And wonder'd, as they flow'd!

Late the rank nettle veil'd thy home,

The rushy bank beneath; Now roses deck thy Gothic dome,

And aromatics breathe;

While lawny slopes and woodlands green,
And mountains softly blue,

Entwine thee with as fair a scene,
As ever pencil drew.

Here at thy shrine shall languor sink,

And oft for succour turn,
And life and health and vigour drink

From thy restoring urn.

The lowly shall the boon receive,
The Poor relief command;For you the gen'rous sanative
Prepar'd by Nature's hand.

And those more blest in wealth and state,
Blind Fortune's special care, Whom common pains assimilate,
And bend with want and care;

While Ileav'n-directed Nature pours

A balm for every woe,
Of her may learn to deal their stores,

And bid their fountains flow.


On the Grave of the Poet Cow Per, in St. Edmund's Chapel, East Dereham, in Norfolk.


Of William Cowpeb, Esq.
Bora in Hertfordshire, 1731;
Buried in this Chapel, 1800.

IB, who with warmth the public triumph feel
Of talents, dignified by sacred zeal,
Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just,
Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust!
England, exulting in his spotless fame,
Ranks with her dearest sons his fav'rite name:
Sense, Fancy, Wit, suffice not all to raise
So clear a title to Affection's praise;
His highest honours to the heart belong;
His virtues form'd the magic of his song.



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I E souls illustrious, who, in days of yore,
With peerless might the British target bore,
Who, clad in wolf-skin, from the scythed car,
Frown'd on the iron brow of mailed War,
And dar'd your rudely-painted limbs oppose
To Chalybean steel, and Roman foes!
And ye of later age, tho' not less fame
In tilt and tournament, the princely game
Of Arthur's barons, wont by hardiest sport
To claim the fairest guerdon of the Court;
Say, holy shades, did e'er your gen'rous blood
Roll through your nobler sons in quicker flood,
Than late f when George bade gird on ev'ry thigh
The myrtle-braided sword of Liberty?
Say, when the high-born Druid's magic strain
Rous'd on old Mona's top a female train,
To madness and with more than mortal rage,
Bade them like Furies in the fight engage;

* By the present Bishop of Clonfert, when Fellow of New College. t These lines were written soon after an installation at Windsor. frantic when each unbound her brist'ling hair,

And shook a flaming torch, and yell'd in wild despair;

Or when on Cressy's field the sable might

Of Edward dar'd four Monarchs to the fight;

Say, holy shades, did patriotic heat,

In your big hearts with quicker transports beat,

Than in your sons, when forth like storms they pour'd,

In Freedom's cause the lury of the sword?

Who rul'd the main, or gallant armies led,

With Hawke who conquer'd, or with Wolfe who bled?

Poor is his triumph, and disgrac'd his name, Who draws the sword for empire, wealth, or fame: For him though wealth be blown on ev'ry wind, Though Fame announce him mightiest of mankind, Though twice ten nations crouch beneath his blade, Virtue disowns him, and his glories fade; For him no prayers are pour'd, no pagans sung, No blefiings chauutrd from a nation's tongue; Blood marks the path to his untimely bier; The curse of orphans, and the widow's tear, Cry to high Heav'n for vengeance on his head; Alive, deserted; and accurst when dead. Indignant of his deeds, the Muse, who sings Undaunted truth, and scorns to flatter kings, Shall shew the monster in his hideous form, And mark him as an earthquake, or a storm. Not so the patriot Chief, who dar'd withstand The base invader of his native land; Who made her weal his noblest, only end, Rul'd but to serve her, fought but to defend; Her voice in council, and in war her sword, Lov'd as her father, and her God ador'd; Who firmly virtuous, and severely brave, Sunk with the freedom that he could not save.

On worth like this the Muse delights to wait,
tleverea alike in triumph and defeat,
Crowns with true glory and with spotless fame,
And honours Paoli's more than Frederick's name.

Here let the Muse withdraw the blood-stain'd veil,
And shew the boldest son of public zeal.
Lo, Sidney leaning o'er the block! his mien,
His voice, his hands, unshaken, clear, serene.
Yet no harangue, proudly declaim'd aloud,
To gain the plaudit of a wayward crowd;
No specious vaunt Death's terrors to defy,
Still Death deferring as afraid to die:
But sternly silent down he bows to prove
How firm his virtuous, though mistaken love.
Unconquer'd Patriot! form'd by ancient lore
The love of ancient Freedom to restore,
Who nobly acted what he boldly thought,
And seal'd by death the lesson that he taught.

Dear is the tie that links the anxious sire To the fond babe that prattles round his fire; Dear is the love that prompts the gen'rous youth, His sire's fond cares and drooping age to soothe; Dear is the brother, sister, husband, wife; Dear all the charities of social life: Nor wants firm Friendship holy wreaths to bind In mutual sympathy the faithful mind: But not the endearing strings that fondly move To filial duty, or parental love, Nor all the ties that kindred bosoms bind, Nor all in Friendship's holy wreaths entwin'd, Are half so dear, so potent to controul The gen'rous workings of the patriot soul, As is that holy voice that cancels all Those lies, that bids him for his country fall;

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