ODE TO PITY.

O THOU, the friend of man affign'd, With balmy hands his wounds to bind,

And charm his frantic woe:

When first Distress with dagger keen, Broke forth to wafte his deftin'd fcene-His wild unfated foe!

By Pella's Bard, a magic name,

By all the griefs his thought could frame, Receive my humble rite:

Long, Pity, let the nations view

Thy fky-worn robes of tendereft blue,
And eyes of dewy light!

But wherefore need I wander wide

To old Iliffus' diftant fide,

Deferted stream, and mute?

Wild Arun too has heard thy ftrains,
And echo 'midft my native plains
Been footh❜d by Pity's lute.

There first the wren thy myrtles fhed,

On gentleft Otway's infant head,

To him thy cell was shown;

1

And while he fung the female heart,

With Youth's foft notes, unfpoil'd by Art,
Thy turtles mix'd their own.

Come, Pity, come, by fancy's aid,
Ev'n now my thought, relenting maid,

Thy temple's pride defign;

Its fouthern fite, its truth complete
Shall raise a wild enthufiaft heat,
In all who view the fhrine.

There Picture's toil fhall well relate,
How chance, or hard involving fate,
O'er mortal blifs prevail;

The bufkin'd mute fhall near her ftand,
And fighing prompt her tender hand,
With each disastrous tale.

There let me oft, retir'd by day,
In dreams of paffion melt away,

Allow'd with thee to dwell:'

There waste the mournful lamp of night,

Till, virgin, thou again delight

To hear a Britifh fhell!

COLLINS.

Ye fates, no longer let me pine,
A felf admiring fweet,

Permit me, by your grace divine,
To kifs the fair-one's feet./

That if by chance the gentle maid
My fragrance fhould admires

I may, upon ber bofom laid,
In fifter's sweets expire. «^, s

CUNNINGHAM.

ON A SHADOW.

AN ODE.

HOW are deluded human kind

By empty shows betray'd?

In all their hopes and schemes they find
A nothing, or a fhade.

The profpects of a truncheon caft

A foldier on the wars;

Difmifs'd with shatter'd limbs at last,
Brats, poverty, and scars.

The fond philofopher for gain.
Will leave unturn'd no ftone;

But tho' they toil with endless pain, They never find their own.

By the fame rock the chemifts drown,"
And find no friendly hold,

But melt their ready fpirit down,
In hopes of fancy'd gold.

What is the mad projector's care?
In hopes elate and fwelling,
He builds his caftles in the air,
Yet wants an houfe to dwell in.

At court, the poor dependants fail,
And damn their fruitlefs toil,
When complimented thence to jail,
And ruin'd with a fmile.

How to philofophers will found
So ftrange a truth difplay'd?

There's not a fubftance to be found,

"But every where a shade."

THE ROSE-BUD.

TO A LADY.

QUEEN of fragrance, lovely Rofe,
The beauties of thy leaves difclofe!
The Winter's paft, the tempefts fly,
Soft gales breathe gently thro' the sky;
The lark, fweet warbling on the wing,
Salutes the gay return of Spring:
The filver dews, the vernal fhowers;
Call forth a bloomy waste of flowers,
The joyous fields, the fhady woods,
Are cloth'd with green, or fwell'd with buds,
Then hafte thy beauties to difclofe,

Queen of fragrance, lovely Rofe !

Thou, beauteous flower, a welcome guest, Shalt flourish on the fair one's breast,

Shalt grace her hand, or deck her hair,
The flower most sweet, the nymph most fair.
Breathe foft, ye winds! be calm, ye skies!
Arife, ye flowery race, arife!

And hafte thy beauties to disclose,

Queen of fragrance, lovely Rofe!