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Our coast no bold invader dares;
And George benign, with lib'ral cares,

Each cherish'd art improves.
Yet Britain views a houseless band;
Sad outcast in his native land,

The wand'ring exile roves,

Shall Luxury, diffusive spread,
Envy the wretch his pain-earn’d bread,

His cot and homely joys?
Are those the means that must replace
The strength of an exhausted race,

Decrepid sires and boys?

Tho' borne on Glory's tow'ring wings, Fame her triumphant paean sings

Far as the billows foam : Yet dearly were our triumphs bought; And hardly paid the victors fought,

Whom Misery waits at home.

But, lo! the nations from afar
Crowd to repair the waste of war,

With numbers, skill, and toil. Myriads, alas ! would crowd in vain, Whilst laws the marriage-rite restrain,

And lordlings thin the soil.

ODES.

CLASS THE THIRD.

CLASS THE THIRD.

RUNIC ODES.

ΣΟΦΙ-
AN EN MYXOIEI TIIEPIANN.

PIND. PYTH. 6.

BY THOMAS JOHN MATHIAS.

ODE I.

THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS;

OR, THE
DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD.

From the chambers of the East,
In robes of terror grimly drest,
Ymir hath his course begun,
Rival of th' unwearied Sun.
Now, in many a glist'ring wreath,
Above, around, and underneath,
The serpent dread, of dateless birth,
Girds the devoted globe of earth;
And, as charm’d by pow'rful spell,
Ocean heaves with furious swell,
The plumed Monarch whets his beak,
Seeking where his wrath to wreak;

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