TO SUPERSTITION, HENCE to some Convent's gloomy aisles, Where cheerful daylight never smiles: Tyrant! from Albion haste, to slavish Rome; There by dim tapers' livid light, At the still solemn hours of night, In pensive musings walk o'er many a sounding tomb. Thy clanking chains, thy crimson steel, [sway. That strongly strives to spring indignant from thy Thou bad'st grim Moloch's frowning priest Snatch screaming infants from the breast, Regardless of the frantic mother's woes; Thou led'st the ruthless sons of Spain To wondering India's golden plain, From deluges of blood where tenfold harvests rose. But lo! how swiftly art thou fled, Thy daughter, trembling Fear, retire; So by the Magi hail'd from far, The shrieking ghosts to their dark charnels flock; The full gorg'd wolves retreat; no more The prowling lionesses roar, [rock. But hasten with their prey to some deep-cavern'd Hail then, ye friends of Reason, hail! To Truth's high temple guide my steps aright, With Locke and Newton by their side, TO A GENTLEMAN, UPON HIS TRAVELS THROUGH ITALY. WHILE I with fond officious care, Perhaps you cull each valley's bloom; To join in choral song his hallow'd urn around; Or wander in the cooling shade Of Sabine bowers where Homer stray'd, And oft repeat, in eager thought elate, [sate.' This fount he lov'd, and there beneath that oak he How longs my raptur'd breast with you, Great Raphael's magic strokes to view, To whose bless'd hand each charm the Graces gave! Whence each fair form with beauty glows, Like that of Venus, when she rose Naked in blushing charms from ocean's hoary wave. As oft by roving fancy led, To smooth Clitumnus' banks you tread, Now through the ruin'd domes my Muse Forlorn and wild, Rome's Genius dwells; His golden sceptre broke, and purple mantle rent. Oft to those mossy mouldering walls, Those caverns dark, and silent halls, Let me repair by midnight's paly fires; There muse on Empire's fallen state, And frail Ambition's hapless fate, [inspires. While more than mortal thoughts the solemn scene What lust of power from the cold North Could tempt those Vandal-robbers forth, Fair Italy, thy vine-clad vales to waste? And all thy Parian seats of Attic art defac'd! They, weeping Art in fetters bound, And gor'd her breast with many a wound, And veil'd her charms in clouds of thickest night; Sad Poësy, much injur'd maid, They drove to some dim convent's shade, And quench'd in gloomy mist her lamp's resplendent light. There long she wept to darkness doom'd, Since has sweet Spenser caught her fire, son. Nor she, mild queen, will cease to smile Where these her best, her favourite Three were born, Or polish'd Dodington remains, The drooping train of arts to cherish and adorn. 1 Akenside. AGAINST DESPAIR. FAREWELL, thou dimpled cherub Joy, While labouring sighs my heart-strings break, |