Sure every MUSE, and every GRACE, will join But watchful THEMIS o'er each freeman rears That facred fhield, THE JUDGMENT OF HIS PEERS, An ODE to a YOUNG GENTLEMAN of MERIT; but a VOTARY of PLEASURE. By the Rev. Mr. WILLIAM JESSOr, of Lifmore, in Ireland. TREPHON, indulge thy gen'rous flight, STRE The primrofe-paths of blithe delight, And o'er thy ev'ry thought maintain unrival'd sway. Where Comus holds his jovial court And wit darts funbeams on the foul: } } 'Till mirth in triumph foar with full expanded wings. Hie thee anon to Celia's bow'r, Clafp the dear charmer to thy breast, } And plunge a-new in gulphs of highly-feafon'd joy. Thus folly chants her firen lay: Yet, Strephon, paufe to fix thy choice, "Till with attention thou fhalt weigh The fober strains of Wisdom's voice. She not a flatt'rer, but a friend, Will point the perils, that attend, And prove thefe brief delights in lafting woes must end. Deluded rover, think in time, Ere Pleasure's bane thy vitals feize, To jocund youth, fweet hour of prime, Ere long thy lifeblood's fervid tide Ah! truft not Youth; for Reason's eye, Beneath his mafque of luring fmiles, Can well difcern the traitor fly, And in his fondness mark his wiles. } } He He foothes thee only to betray: Clafp'd by the hand, in winning way, He leads thee ftep by step to weakness and decay. The river thus, that murmurs by, And spread their verdure o'er the tide; } } "And gradual faps its root, and lays its beauties low. The hours, that now fo gaily dance With feather'd feet, will foon be past; Soon will the heavy days advance, With doubts and bodings overcaft: A low'ring gloom thy foul fhall fhroud, Shall lance her livid flash, and roll her thunders loud. } And keeneft anguish prove thy joys are dearly bought. The more delay the fiegers found Anon fhall ev'ry fence outbrave, And burft, like torrents, on the foul. Alas! 'tis then th' excluded thought Shall rush with ten fold terror fraught, Thus if a hoft has long affail'd The walls of fome devoted town, When at the laft its works have fail'd, And all its tow'rs are batter'd down, The harder toil to win the ground, More fierce they mount the breach, and pour wild havock round. What scenes thy thoughtless youth prepares For the dull days of drooping age, When totter'ing limbs, and hoary hairs, This world no folace fhall fupply; } } The next fhall fcowl with threat'ning eye; And wearied out with life thy foul fhall dread to die. } So from a cliff's aerial brow If flips perchance fome heedlefs fwain, And midway meets a thorny bough, He gripes it with an eager strain; Hopeless and horrid is his ftate; His anguish, while he clings, is great; And fhould he part his grafp, perdition is his fate. } An ODE, Written by WALTER MAPES Archdeacon of OXFORD, the ANACREON of the Eleventh Century. I. M Vinum ft appofitum morientis ori IHI eft propofitum in Tabernâ mori: Ut dicant cùm venerint Angelorum Chori, II. Poculis accenditur animi Lucerna, Cor imbutum Nectare volat ad fuperna; III. Suum cuique proprium dat Natura Munus, IV. Tales verfus facio quale Vinum bibo, V. Mihi nunquàm Spiritus Prophetiæ datur THE SAME, attempted in English. By Mr. DERBY, of FOR DINGBRIDGE, HANTS. I. I'M refolv'd in a Tavern with Honour to die: At my Mouth place a full flowing Bowl, II. By toping the Mind with fresh Vigour is fraught, Give me Wine that's unmix'd-not that watery Draught, III. To each Man his Gift Nature gives to enjoy To pretend to write well is a Jeft When I'm hungry; I yield, overcome by a Boy ; IV. My Verfes all taste of the Wine that I ftow; But with Bumpers enliven'd how fweet does the flow! V. Till my Belly's well fill'd Truths I ne'er can divine; The ftrong Impulfe I teel of the great God of Rhime, ODE for the NEW YEAR. January 1, 1774. By WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Efq; Poet Laureat. "Pmperial Xerxes figh'd, and faid, ASS but a few thort fleeting years," Whilft his fond eyes, fuffus'd with tears, "Pafs but a few fhort fleeting years, And all that pomp which now appears A glorious, living scene, Shall breathe its laft: Shall fall, shall die, And low in earth yon myriads lie, As they had never been!" True, tyrant: Wherefore then does pride, To spread thy needlefs conquefts wide And defolate mankind? Say, why do millions bleed at thy command ? If life, alas, is fhort, why fhake the hafty fand? Not |