A

DUNCAN'S WARNING.

[From Poems by J. Aikin, M. D.]

S o'er the heath, amid his steel-clad Thanes,
The royal Duncan rode in martial pride,
Where, full to view, high-topp'd with glittering vanes,
Macbeth's ftrong towers o'erhung the mountain's fide;

In dusky mantle wrapp'd, a grifly form

Rufh'd with a giant's ftride acrofs his way;
And thus, while howl'd around the rifing ftorm,
In hollow thundering accents pour'd dismay.

Stop, O King! thy deftin'd course,
Furl thy ftandard, turn thy horfe,
Death befets this onward track,
Come no further,-quickly, back.

Hear'st thou not the raven's croak?
See'ft thou not the blafted oak?
Feel'st thou not the loaded sky?
Read thy danger, King, and fly.

Lo, yon' castle banners glare
Bloody through the troubled air;
Lo, what spectres on the roof
Frowning bid thee stand aloof!

Murder, like an eagle, waits
Perch'd above the gloomy gates,
Juft in act to pounce his prey;
Come not near-away! away!

Let not plighted faith beguile;
Honour's femblance, Beauty's fmile :
Fierce Ambition's venom'd dart
Rankles in the feft'ring heart.

Treafon, arm'd against thy life,
Points his dagger, whets his knife,
Drugs his ftupifying bowl,
Steels his unrelenting foul.

Now 'tis time; ere guilty night
Clofes round thee, fpeed thy flight.
If the threshold once be croft,
Duncan! thou'rt for ever loft.

Or

F

HORATIAN PHILOSOPHY.

[From the fame Work.]

ROM fcenes of tumult, noife and ftrife,
And all the ills of public life;

From waiting at the great man's gate,
Amid the flaves that fwell his state;

From coxcomb poets and their verses;

From streets with chariots throng'd, and hearses:
From rattling fpendthrifts, and their guests,

And dull buffoons with fcurvy jests;

From fashion's whims, and folly's freaks;

From shouts by day, and nightly shrieks;
O let me make a quick retreat,
And feek in hafte my country feat ;
In filent fades forgotten lie,
And learn to live, before I die!
There, on the verdant turf reclin'd,
By wifdom's rules compofe my mind;
My paffions ftill, correct my heart,
And meliorate my better part:
Quit idle hope, and fond defire,
And cease to gaze where fools admire :
With fcorn the crowd profane behold
Enflav'd by fordid thirst of gold,
Nor deign to bend at such a shrine,
While prieft of Phoebus and the Nine.
Nor would I fhun the student's toil,
But feed my lamp with Grecian oil.
Sometimes thro' Stoic walks fublime
Up the rough steep of Virtue climb;
From philofophic heights look down,
Nor heed if Fortune Iniile or frown;
In wifdom's mantle clofely furl'd,
Defy the tempefts of the world;
And, fcorning all that's not our own,
Place every good in mind alone.
Then, fliding to an easier plan,
Put off the God, to be the Man;
Refolve the offer'd fweets to prove
Of focial bowls, gay sports, and love;
Give froward life its childish toy,
Nor blush to feel, and to enjoy.

f The idea of this messenger of terror, have engrafted on the ftory of Macbeth, is derived from an incident which the French hiftorians relate to her occured to Charles VI. in the foreft of Mans.

Yet

Yet ever, as by humour led,
Each path of life in turn 1 tread,
Still to my first great maxim true,
On Moderation fix my view;
Let her with tempering fway prefide
O'er. Pleafure's cup and Learning's pride;
And by her fage decrees o'er-rule
The dogmas of each sturdy school.
Opinion thus may various play,
While reafon fhines with fteady ray,
And cafts o'er all the fhifting fcene
Her fober hue, and light ferene.

AN AMATORY ODE.

[From Salmagundi; a Miscellaneous Combination of Original Poetry.]

N

OW hath the fun his evanefcent fires

Quench'd in the billows of the western main;
Ceafe their foft carols all the feather'd choirs,
And gloomy folitude ufurps the plain.

Rife, ye deep fhades, ye waves in darkness roll, ·
Ye feather'd choirs to filence yield the grove,
For Lefbia fleeps:-nor cheers my penfive foul
The glance of rapture, nor the voice of love.

Ye Winds, whofe havoc-fpreading pinions ply
Their furious fpeed, and with dire yell invade
This nether world, whofe wafteful tyranny
Pale Dryads mourn in many a ruin'd shade;

Wake not my Love:-Let not your thund'ring ery
With dread alarm the haunt of peace infeft;
Here breathe in soft Aolian melody

Each cadence fweet that charms the foul to reft.

Ye Spectres (whom belated pilgrims fear,

ffuing in throngs from charnel, vault, or tomb,
What time deep-fhadowing clouds thy radiant fphere,
Cynthia, involve in night's meridian gloom,)

Hence to deferted fane or mouldering hall,
Or the gaunt felon's ruthless course control
With monitory fhriek the wretch appal,
And to compunction wake his torpid foul.

But walk not near the couch where Lesbia lies
Like fome rich pearl in its enamell'd shell,
Or fainted relic, from profaner eyes
Secluded in the dim fhrine's fiver cell.

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Wanton, ye Faries, round her tranquil bow'r,
With blissful elves fantastic measures tread;
O'er her foft eyelids dews of opiate pow'r

Cull'd from choice blooms, in thow'rs of fragrance Thed:

Let your bright tapers' vifionary ray

The raven-tinctur'd robe of Night, illume;
And, ftreaming o'er your fpangled crefts, difplay
The wave-enamour'd hakyon's emerald plume.

And bid your Minftrel-Fays, a fhadowy choir,
That charm the planets from their fpheres fublime,
Celestial fongs that love and joy infpire,
Chant to their golden harp's harmonious chime.

And, when morn's purple ftreaks th' horizon ftain,
And Fairies fly the peal of Chanticleer,
Let Fancy ftill your glittering hues retain,
Still let your wild notes tremble on her ear.

Then, Lefbia, wake thy beauties, frefher far
Than Galatea boafted when she lav'd
In the fmooth deep her coral-axled car,
And the stern heart of Neptune's fon enflav'd.

Wake at his call, to footh whofe foul in vain
Morn sheds her radiant beam, her od'rous airs,
Save when, attentive to his artless strain,

That radiant beam, those odours Lesbia fhares:

He afks no laureate wreath to deck his brows,
No golden meed his bounded wifhes claim,
Bleft if the object of his tendereft vows
Smile on his lay-for Lefbia's fimile is fame.

FREE IMITATION of a LATIN ODE, by WALTER de MAPES, Archdeacon of Oxford in the eleventh Century.

Mihi fapit dulcius vinum in taberna
Quám quod aquâ mifcuit præfulis Pincerna.

Suum cuique proprium dat natura munus,
Ego nunquam potui fcribere jejunus:
Me jejunum vincere poffet puer unus,
Sitim et jejunium odi tanquam funus.

Tales verfus facio quale vinum bibo,
Non poffum fcribere nifi fumpto cibo;
Nihil valet penitùs quod jejunus fcribo,
Nafonem poft calices facilé præibo.

Mihi nunquàm fpiritus prophetiæ datur
Nifi cùm fuerit venter benè fatur;
Cùm in arce cerebri Bacchus dominatur
In me Phoebus, irruit ac miranda fatur.

IMITATION.

I'll in a tavern end my days 'midst boon companions merry,
Place at my lips a lufty flask replete with fparkling fherry,

That angels hov'ring round may cry, when I lie dead as door nail;
Rife, genial Deacon, rife and drink of the well of life eternal."

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Tis wine the fading lamp of life renews with fire celestial,
And elevates the raptur'd fenfe above this globe terrestrial;
Be mine the grape's pure juice unmix'd with any base ingredient,
Water to heretics I leave, found churchmen have no need on't.

Various implements belong to ev'ry occupation;

Give me an haunch of venifon,-and a fig for infpiration!
Verfes and odes without good cheer I never could indite 'em,
Sure he who meager days devis'd is d---d ad infinitum!

When I exhauft the bowl profound and gen'rous liquor swallow,
Bright as the beverage I imbibe the gen'rous numbers follow;
Your fneaking water-drinkers all, I utterly condemn 'em,
He that would write like Homer muft drink like Agamemnon.

Myfteries and prophetic truths, I never could unfold 'em
Without a flagon of good wine and a flice of cold ham;
But when I've drain'd my liquor out, and eat what's in the dish up,
Tho' I am but an arch-deacon, I can preach like an archbishop.

ODF

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