THE SECULAR POEM.

BY WILLIAM DUNCOME-1759.

CHOIR OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.

PHŒBUS, and Cynthia, o'er the chase
Presiding; Heaven's eternal grace!
Whom, as pass'd times, the future shall adore,
Grant what, this sacred season, we implore!

Now when the sibyl's lines command
That youths and maids, a chosen band!
Shall to the gods, whom our seven hills delight,
A choral hymn alternately recite.

CHOIR OF YOUTHS.

Indulgent sun! whose various ray

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Now spreads, and now withdraws the day, 10 Another and the same; may years to come No prospect yield thee more august than Rome!

CHOIR OF VIRGINS.

Your aid, mild Ilithyia, give

To matrons, and their pangs relieve:

Whether you choose Lucina for your name
Or rather that of Genetyllis claim.

To pregnant wives give large increase;
The laws that favour wedlock bless,
Those laws, ordain'd to multiply our race,
Which fathers with peculiar honours grace.

BOTH CHOIRS.

Oft, as the allotted term of years
Returns, and a new age appears,

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May it restore such grateful songs and plays,

Three shining nights, and three distinguish'd days!

Ye Parcæ, whose resistless will
Events infallibly fulfil;

Whose word once spoke immutable shall last,
With future blessings still improve the past.

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Let earth, with corn and flocks o'erspread Weave yellow wreaths for Ceres' head: Let wholesome streams, sweet air, and grassy food. Cherish the herds, the flocks, and tender brood.

CHOIR OF YOUTHS.

With bow unstrung, and favouring ear
Kindly the suppliant youths, Apollo! hear.

CHOIR OF VIRGINS.

Horn'd queen of stars! the maids attend,
Who to thy throne, with humble homage, bend

BOTH CHOIRS.

If Rome was rear'd by your command;
If Trojans sought the Etruscan land,

Enjoin'd by you to leave their native shore,

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And foreign realms, with prosperous course, explore;

Whom safely through devouring flame,
The chief, immortalized by fame,

Led to a fairer soil, a happier coast,
A nobler empire than in Troy they lost;

Let youth with probity be bless'd!
To age, ye gods! give needful rest;

And crown the Romans with a numerous race,
With large increase of wealth, and every grace!

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Let Cæsar in his vows succeed,

Who bids the milk-white victims bleed;
Cæsar, who triumphs o'er his stubborn foes,
But generous mercy to the suppliant shows.

The Mede now fears, by sea and land,
The Albanian axe, and Cæsar's hand:
Scythians and Indians, late so haughty, wait
From Rome's revered decrees to learn their fate.

Now honour, truth, and ancient shame,
And peace, our savage passions tame:
Virtue unveils her face, secure from scorn,
And plenty scatters fruits with plenteous horn.

CHOIR OF YOUTHS.

The prophet-god, with golden bow,
Dear to the Nine, who well can show
The healing power of every herb and plant,
And sprightly health to languid mortals grant;

If he survey with gracious eye

His own high towers, which pierce the sky,
Will add fresh glories to our envied name,
And spread from age to age the Roman fame!

CHOIR OF VIRGINS.

Cynthia, adored on Aventine

And Algidus, with looks benign

Regards these rites; the priestly vows receives,
And what we beg, with kind indulgence gives.

BOTH CHOIRS.

We, who have sung in sacred lays
Apollo's and Diana's praise,

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Will home return with just presage that Jove 75 Allows our prayers, and all the powers above.

BOOK III.-ODE IX.-TO LYDIA.

BY H. MATTHEWS,

AUTHOR OF "THE DIARY OF AN INVALID."-1821.

Horace. LYDIA, while thou wert only mine,
Nor any younger favourite cull

Toy'd with that soft white neck of thine,
I envied not the great Mogul!

Lydia. Ere Chloe had thy heart estranged,
And Lydia held thee all her own;
She would not bliss like this have changed,
To mount the Queen of Sheba's throne!

H. To Chloe, now my bosom's queen,
My life, nay, e'en my death I vow,
Her dearer life from harm to screen,
Would fate the substitute allow !

L. Young Calais woos me, nothing loth
To share in all his amorous joy :-
Had I two lives, I'd give them both,

Would fate but spare my darling boy!

H. What if, this folly just worn out,
I'd buckle on my ancient chain?
Turn Chloe to the right-about,

And beckon Lydia back again?

L. Though he were fair as any star,
Though rough and fickle as the sea;
Yet be it still my constant prayer,

To live, and love, and die with thee!

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THE SATIRES.-BOOK I.

SATIRE III. IMITATED.

BY JOHN CAM HOBHOUSE, ESQ.-1809.
ASK modish sirens for a song,

You must entreat the whole day long;
Make no request, and out they come,

And squeak and squall you from the room.
This fault had Sardus: oft in vain

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His patron ask'd him for a strain;
Yet when he pleased, he struck a tune,
To last from morning unto noon:
And from his top to lowest note
Tried all the compass of his throat
To say the truth, above the ground
So strange a mortal ne'er was found;
Now quick as those whom bailiffs fright,
Now slow as coronation knight:

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Now with two lackeys and a chair,

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And now no barber for his hair.

Now all for lords and court and show,
And now a friend and box at Kew;
With food not high, but just enough,
And coat in winter warm, though rough.
Yet should some friend, or lucky hit,
Enrich this man of sense and wit,
Not e'en a thousand pounds would pay
Our hermit's bills at quarter day.
He, like the fools about the town,
Would turn the world quite upside down:
Leaves daylight to the city drone,
And lives throughout the night alone:

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