A PINDARIC ODE,

I. 3.

Thee the voice, the dance obey,
Temper'd to thy warbled lay,
O'er Idalia's velvet-green
The rofy- crowned loves are seen
On Cytherea's day
With antie Sports, and blue-ey'd Pleafures,
Frisking light in frolic meafures;
Now purfuing, now retreating,
Now in eireling troops they meet:
To brifk notes in cadence beating,
Glance their many-twinkling feet.
Slow melting trains their Queen's approach
declare:
Where-e'r the turns the Graces homage pay.
With arms sublime, that float upon the air,
In gilding flate the wins her easy way:
O'er

85 THE PROGRESS OF POESY.

O'er her warm cheek, and riling bofom, move
The bloom of young desire, and purple light
of Love.

II. 1.

Man's feeble race what ills await!
Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
Difeafe, and Sorrow's weeping train,
And Death, fad refuge from the storms of Fate!
The fond complaint, my fong, difprove,
And juſtify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he given in vain the heav'nly Mufe ?
Night, and all her fickly dews,
Her ſpectres wan, and birds of boding cry,
He gives to range the dreary ſky :
Till down the eastern cliffs afar
Hyperion's march they ſpy, and glitt'ring
 Shafts of war.

II. 2.