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SECOND CLASS.

ODES.

CLASS THE FIRST

CONTINUED.

ODE XXXVIII.

TO PLEASURE.

Sister of Youth and laughing Joy,

Sweet Pleasure, sorrow-soothing queen, Daughter of Venus, ever-young,

And Bacchus wreath’d with ivy green; Whom on their laps the rosy-bosom'd Hours, And all the Graces nurst beneath Idalian bowers.

O lead me to thy blissful vale !

Where Hope and Health in sprightly round, Leisure, with Freedom hand in hand,

In dance fantastic beat the ground ; Where'er they tread the fairest flowers arise, Embroidering all the green with ever-varying dies.

Let the stern pedant love to waste

In studious search the tedious night, Attentive to the learned page,

By musing taper's glimmering light,

B

Whose pensive ear no wakeful sounds alarm,
Save the lone owl, slow clock, or bellman's drowsy

charm.

Me let the cheerful dance engage,

Swift urg'd along the lighted dome; While with new warmth the virgin glows,

Her cheek all flush'd with fresher bloom: Motion and music tenderest thoughts inspire, And all her yielding soul relents to soft desire.

Let the sage Hermit shun mankind,

With pale-eyed Penitence to dwell, To freeze at midnight hours of prayer

Within a solitary cell; Penurious on the verdant herb to sup, And of the chilling stream to drain his beechen cup.

Be mine, amidst the social band,

The raptures of champaign to taste, Whose vigorous juice new relish gives

To mutual converse, Reason's feast; While old Anacreon seems to‘rise, and say, “ Begone, ye toils of life, ye busy cares, away!"

ODE XXXIX.

TO

POVERTY.

BY THE REV. THOMAS PENROSE.

Hie thee hence! thou spectre foul,

Fiend of misery extreme;

Hence! nor o'er yon dwelling scowl With blasting eye, while to thy haggard scream The midnight wolf accords his famish'd howl, And madd’ning wretches loud in agony blaspheme.

Hence!—from the artless bard keep wide aloof

Fly rather to his hated roof,
Who, deaf to Mercy's soft controul,

Can steel with rugged edge the soul : Plund'ring, unmov'd the orphan's cry can hear, Or from the widow'd lip the scanty morsel tear :

But pass him by, the wooer mild
Of Genius, friend to all, Nature's ingenuous child.

Constant toil, and coarsest fare,
Long indeed the village hind

In silent apathy may bear,
While o'er his brow Health's rosy wreath is twin’d:

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