On yonder verdant hilloc laid, Where oaks and elms, a friendly shade, O'erlook the falling stream, O master of the Latin lyre, Awhile with thee will i retire From summer's noontide beam....
Of all the springs within the mind Which prompt her steps in fortune's maze, From none more pleasing aid we find Than from the genuine love of praise. Nor any partial, private end...
Once more I join the Thespian choir, And taste the inspiring fount again: O parent of the Grecian lyre, Admit me to thy powerful strain And lo, with ease my step invades...
Not for themselves did human kind Contrive the parts by heaven assign'd On life's wide scene to play: Not Scipio's force, nor C'sar's skill Can conquer glory's arduous hill, If fortune close the way....
With what attractive charms this goodly frame Of Nature touches the consenting hearts Of mortal men; and what the pleasing stores Which beauteous imitation thence derives...
With what attractive charms this goodly frame Of nature touches the consenting hearts Of mortal men; and what the pleasing stores Which beauteous imitation thence derives...
With what inchantment nature's goodly scene Attracts the sense of mortals; how the mind For its own eye doth objects nobler still Prepare; how men by various lessons learn...
One effort more, one cheerful sally more, Our destin'd course will finish. and in peace Then, for an offering sacred to the powers Who lent us gracious guidance, we will then...
When shall the laurel and the vocal string Resume their honours? When shall we behold The tuneful tongue, the Prometh'an hand Aspire to ancient praise? Alas! how faint,...
Thus far of beauty and the pleasing forms Which man's untutor'd fancy, from the scenes Imperfect of this ever-changing world, Creates; and views, inamor'd. Now my song...
What tongue then may explain the various fate Which reigns o'er earth? or who to mortal eyes Illustrate this perplexing labyrinth Of joy and woe through which the feet of man...
Of all the various lots around the ball, Which fate to man distributes, absolute; Avert, ye gods! that of the Muse's son, Curs'd with dire poverty! poor hungry wretch!...
Believe me, Edwards, to restrain The license of a railer's tongue Is what but seldom men obtain By sense or wit, by prose or song: A task for more Herculean powers, Nor suited to the sacred hours...
Whoe'er thou art whose path in summer lies Through yonder village, turn thee where the grove Of branching oaks a rural palace old Imbosoms. there dwells Albert, generous lord...
Ye powers unseen, to whom, the bards of Greece Erected altars; ye who to the mind More lofty views unfold, and prompt the heart With more divine emotions; if erewhile...