LINES
ON HEARING A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, WHO IS BOTH LAME
AND BLIND, BUT IN OTHER RESPECTS VERY HANDSOME,
SING AND PLAY ON HIS VIOLIN FOR THE FIRST TIME.
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Crippled his limbs, and sightless are his eyes; I view the youth, and feel compassion rise. He sings! how sweet the notes! in pleased amaze I listen,—listen, and admiring gaze. Still, as he catches inspiration's fire, Sweeping with bolder hands the obedient strings, That mix, harmonious, with the strains he sings, He pours into the music all his soul, And governs mine with strong, but soft controul: Raptured I glow, and more and more admire. His mortal ailments I no longer see; But, of divinities my fancy dreams; Blind was the enchanting God of soft desire; And lame the powerful Deity of fire; His bow the magic rod of Hermes seems; And in his voice I hear the God of harmony.

LINES TO A PEDANTIC CRITIC.
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Critic! should I vouchsafe to learn of thee, Correct, no doubt, but cold my strains would be: Now, cold correctness!—I despise the name; Is that a passport through the gates of fame? Thy pedant rules with care I studied once; Was I made wiser, or a greater dunce? Hence, Critic, hence! I'll study them no more; My eyes are open'd, and the folly's o'er. When Genius opes the floodgates of the soul, Fancy's outbursting tides impetuous roll, Onward they rush with unresisted sway,} Sweeping fools, pedants, critics, all away} Who would with obstacles their progress stay.} As mighty Ocean bids his waves comply With the great luminaries of the sky, So Genius, to direct his course aright, Owns but one guide, the inspiring God of light.

LINES ON SHAKSPEARE.
(SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN NEAR HIS TOMB.)
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Behold! this marble tablet bears inscribed The name of Shakspeare!— What a glorious theme For never-ending praise! His drama's page, Like a clear mirror, to our wondering view Displays the living image of the world, And all the different characters of men: Still, in the varying scenes, or sad, or gay, We take a part; we weep; we laugh; we feel All the strong sympathies of real life. To him alone, of mortals, Fancy lent Her magic wand, potent to conjure up Ideal Forms, distinctly character'd, Exciting fear, or wonder, or delight. The works of Shakspeare! are they not a fane, Majestic as the canopy of heaven, Embracing all created things, a fane His superhuman genius has upraised, To Nature consecrate? The Goddess there For ever dwells, and from her sanctuary, By Shakspeare's voice, her poet and high-priest, Reveals her awful mysteries to man, And with her power divine rules every heart. At Shakspeare's name, then, bow down all ye sons Of learning, and of art! ye men, endow'd With talent, taste! ye nobler few who feel The genuine glow of genius! bow down all In admiration! with deep feeling own Your littleness, your insignificance; And with one general voice due homage pay To Nature's Poet, Fancy's best-loved Child!

LINES ON MILTON.
(SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN NEAR HIS TOMB.)
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Milton!— the name of that divinest Bard Acts on Imagination like a charm Of holiest power;—with deep, religious awe She hails the sacred spot where sleep entomb'd The relics that enshrined his godlike soul. O! with what heartfelt interest and delight, With what astonishment, will all the sons Of Adam, till the end of time, peruse His lofty, wondrous page! with what just pride Will England ever boast her Milton's name, The Poet matchless in sublimity! E'en now in Memory's raptured ear resound The deep-toned strains of the Miltonic lyre; Inspiring virtuous, heart-ennobling thought, They breathe of heaven; the imaginative Power No longer treads the guilt-polluted world, But soars aloft, and draws empyreal air: Rapt Faith anticipates the judgment-hour, When, at the Archangel's call, the dead shall wake With frames resuscitated, glorified: Then, then! in strains like these, the sainted Bard, Conspicuous mid salvation's earth-born heirs, Shall join harmoniously the heavenly choir, And sing the Saviour's praise in endless bliss.

ANACREONTIC.
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Still, as the fleeting seasons change, From joy to joy poor mortals range, And as the year pursues its round, One pleasure's lost, another found; Time, urging on his envious course, Still drives them from their last resource. So butterflies, when children chase The gaudy prize with eager pace, On each fresh flower but just alight, And, ere they taste, renew their flight. Thanks to kind Fortune! I possess A constant source of happiness, And am not poorly forced to live On what the seasons please to give. Let clouds or sunshine vest the pole, What care I, while I quaff the bowl? In that secure, I can defy The changeful temper of the sky. No weatherglass, or if I be, Thou, Bacchus! art my Mercury.