A PINDARIC ODE.

III. 1.

Far from the fun and fummer gale,
In thy green lap has Nature's darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon ftray'd,
To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face: the dauntles's child
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil'd.
This pencil take (the faid) whofe colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year:
Thine too thefe golden keys, immortal boy!
This can unlock the gates of Joy;
Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,
Or opethe facred source of sympathetic Tears.

III. 2.

Nor fecond he, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstacy,
The secrets of th'abyfs to fpy.
He pafs'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time:

The

THE PROGRESS OF POESY.

The living throne, the sapphire blaze,
Where angels tremble, while they gaze,
He faw; but, blasted with exces of light,
Clos'd his eyes in endlefs night.
Behold, where Dryden's lefs prefumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear
Two courfers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-
refounding pace.

III. 3.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er,
Scatters from her piectur'd urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn,
But ah! 'tis heard no more—
Oh! Lyre divine, what daring fpirit
Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit:

Nor