Hours, days, months, years, impetuous fly,
Like meteors darting thro' the fky,

And muft return no more.

Know, my young friend, that moments filed
Are moments ever, ever dead,

And cancell'd from thy feore.

See how the globes, that fail the heav'n,
Around in rapid eddies driven,

And haft'ning to their doom;

Time rushes to eternity,
Eager in his embrace to die,
His parent and his tomb.

Though we in these low vales were born,
Yet these low vales our fouls fhould fcorn,
And to the heav'ns should rife:

So the larks, hatch'd on clods of earth,
Difdain their mean inglorious birth,
And tow'r unto the skies.

T. C.

The Mutability of Human Life, and Adverfity, not to be too much deplored,

CASSIMIR, Book I. Ode ii.

Y friend, forbear th' unmanly cry,
Nor

MY

Mot let thy bofom heave the figh,

Nor cloud thy looks with woe,

If Phoebus' rays should be reftrain'd,
And Fortune from her fickle hand
Some lucklefs die fhould throw.

To-day th' unprifon'd whirlwinds fweep,
And roufe to rage the boiling deep,
And warring billows roar;

But, ere the morn her fway refumes,
Zephyr fhall wave his filken plumes,
And gen'ral peace restore.

The fun, that funk with clouds oppreft,
To-morrow rifing in the caft,

In his full flame shall glow.

Griefs and gay fmiles alternate rife ;
Joy wipes the dew-drop from our eyes,

And tranfport treads on woe.

Danger

Danger and difappointment wait,
To burst in fadden storms of fate,
Where Hope's proud progrefs rolls;
Thus 'tis decreed, till Time's last day
Shall fweep this phantom world away,
And reft our toffing fouls.

He, who last night his oxen drove,
To-day to Rome makes his remove,
A fphere fupreme to fill;

The yokes his oxen wore he throws,
Refifflefs, on his country's foes,
The vaffals of his will.

The evening ftar the man beheld
An humble ploughman in the field;
But, when the morning came,
He, by the Senate's fuffrage rais'd,
In highest rank of glory blaz'd,
And realms rever'd his name.
Should Fortune, who delights to twine
A fable with a filver line,

Affume a diff'rent thread,

He, a poor fwain, hifs'd by the throng,
Who with his triumph fwell'd their fong,
Muft feek his ftraw-built fhed.

The axes that, with laurels crown'd,

Once ftruck a trembling terror round,

His ftubborn billets rend;

His rods, which once the world controul'd,
To mend his fire, and chace the cold,
Their laft affiftance lend,

SAPPHO. FRAGMENT 5. On the ROSE,

WOULD Jove appoint fome flower to reign

In matchlefs beauty on the plain,

The Rofe, mankind would all agree,
The Rofe, the queen of flowers fhould be:
The pride of plants, the grace of bowers,
The blush of meads, the eye of flowers;
Its beauties charm the gods above;
Its fragrance is the breath of love;
Its foliage wantons in the air
Luxuriant like the flowing hair:
It fhines in gloomy splendour gay,
Whilft zephyrs on its bofom play.

ODE, to Mufick, performed in the Senate-Houfe at Cambridge, July 1, 1769, at the Inftallation of AUGUSTUS HENRY, DUKE of GRAFTON, CHANCELLOR of the UNIVERSITY.

Written by Mr. Gray, Author of The Elegy in a Country Church-Yard; Set by Dr. Randall, Mufick Profeffor.

HE

AIR.

[ENCE! avaunt! 'tis holy ground,
Comus and his midnight crew,
And Ignorance with looks profound,
And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue!
Mad Sedition's cry prophane,
Servitude that hugs her chain,

Nor in thefe confecrated bow'rs

Let painted Flatt'ry hide her ferpent train in flow'rs.

CHORUS.

Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain,

Dare the Mufes' walk to ftain,

While bright-ey'd Science walks around,
Hence! avaunt! 'tis holy ground.

RECITATIVE.

From yonder realms of empyrean day

Burfts on my ear th' indignant lay!

There fit the fainted Sage, the Bard divine,

The few whom genius gave to fhine,

Thro' ev'ry unborn age and undiscover'd clime;

Rapt in celeftial transport they ;

Yet hither oft a glance from high

They fend of tender fympathy,

To

To blefs the place, where, on their op’ning soul,
First the genuine ardor stole;

'Twas Milton ftruck the deep-ton'd shell,
And as the choral warblings round him swell,
Meek Newton's felf bends from his ftate fublime,
And nods his hoary-head, and liftens to the rhyme.
AIR.

"Ye brown o'er-arching groves
"That contemplation loves,

"Where willowy Comus lingers with delight,

t

"Oft at blush of dawn

"I've trod your level lawn,

Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia's filver light,
"In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of folly,
"With freedom by my fide, and foft-ey'd melancholy.'
RECITATIVE.

But hark! the portals found, and pacing forth,
With folemn steps and flow,

High potentates, and dames of royal birth,
And mitred fathers, in long order go:
Great Edward, with the lilies on his brow

From haughty Gallia torn;

And fad Chatillon on her bridal morn,

That wept her bleeding love; and princely Clare ;
And Anjou's heroine; and the paler rofe,

The rival of her crown and of her woes!

And either Henry there,

The murder'd faint, and the majestic lord
That broke the bonds of Rome.
Their tears, their little triumphs o'er,
Their human paffions move no more,
Save charity that glows beyond the tomb.
[Accompanied.]

All that on Granta's fruitful plain
Rich ftreams of regal bounty pour'd,
And bade their awful fanes and turrets rife,
To hail their Fitzroy's feftal morning come,
And thus they speak in foft accord
The liquid language of the skies.

QUARTETTO.
What is grandeur, what is pow'r!
Heavier toil! fuperior pain!
What the bright reward of gain?
The grateful memory of the good:
Sweet is the breath of vernal fhow'r,
The bees collected treasure sweet;
Sweet mufic's fall-but fweeter yet
The ftill fmall voice of gratitude!

RE.

RECITATIVE.

Foremost, and leaning from her golden cloud,

The venerable Margaret fee-
Welcome, my noble fon, fhe cries aloud,
To this thy kindred train and me,
Pleas'd in thy lineaments to trace
A Tudor's fire, a Beaufort's grace!
AIR.

Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye,
The flow'r unheeded fhall defcry,
And bid it round heav'n's altars fhed
The fragrance of its blushing head,
Shall raise from earth the latent gem,
To glitter on the diadem!

RECITATIVE.
Lo Granta waits to lead her blooming band,
Not obvious, not obtrufive fhe;
No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings,
Nor dares with courtly tongue refin'd
Profane thy inborn royalty of mind;

She reveres herself and thee!

With modeft pride, to grace thy youthful brow
The laureat wreaths that Cecil wore fhe brings,
And to thy juft, thy gentle hand
Submits the fafces of her fway,

While fpirits blefs'd above, and men below,
Join with glad voice the loud fymphonious lay!
GRAND CHORUS.

Thro' the wild waves as they roar,
With watchful eye, and dauntlefs mien,
Thy steady course of honour keep;
Nor fear the rocks, nor feek the shore-
The ftar of Brunswick fhines ferene,
And gilds the horrors of the deep.

An EPISTLE, imitated from HORACE, to Lord COBHAM, by Mr. POPE.

INCEREST critic of my profe or rhyme,

S'Tell how thy pleating Stowe employs thy time:

Say, Cobham, what amufes thy retreat;
Or schemes of war, or ftratagems of ftate?
Or doft thou give the winds afar to blow
Each vexing thought and heart-devouring woe,
And fix thy mind alone on rural fcenes,
To turn the level❜d lawns to liquid plains;
To raise the creeping rills from humble beds,
And force the latent fprings to lift their heads;

On