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ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR.

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ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR. By H. y. PYE, Esq. Poet Laurent. WHEN, at the Despot's dread command, Bridg'd Hellespont his myriads bore From servile Asia's peopled strand To Graecia's and to Freedom's share— While hostile fleets terrific sweep With threatening oar th' Ionian deep, Clear Dirce's bending reeds among, The Theban Swan no longer sung No more by Isthmus' wave-worn glade. Or Nemea's rocks, or Delphi's shade, Or Pisa's olive-rooted grove, The temple of Olympian Jove, The Muses twin'd the sacred bough, To crown th' athletic victor's brow, Till on the rough Ægean main, Till on Platea's trophied plain, Was crush'd the Persian Tyrant's boast, O'erwhelm'd his fleet, o'erthrown his host. Then the bold Theban seiz'd again the lyre. And struck the cords with renovated nre On human life's delusive state, Tho' woes unseen uncertain, wait, Heal'd in the gen'rous breast is every pain, With undiminished force-if Freedom's rights maintain" t Not so the British Muse—Tho' rude Her voice to Grcecia's tuneful choir, By dread, by danger unsubdu'd, Dauntless she wakes the lyric wire So when the awful thunder roars, When round the livid lightnings play, The imperial eagle proudly soars, And wings aloft her daring way. And, hark with animating note Aloud her strains exulting float, While pointing to th' inveterate host, Who threat destruction to this envied coast: Go forth, my sons-as nobler rights ye claim, Than ever fann'd the Grecian patriot's flame, So let your breast a fiercer ardour feel, Led by your patriot King, to guard your country's weal." Her voice is heard—from wood, from vale, from down, The thatch-roofed village, and the busy town, Eager th' indignant country swarms, And pours a people clad in arms, Numerous as those as Xerxes led, To crush devoted Freedom's head Firm as the band for Freedom's cause who stood, And stain'd Thermopylae: with Spartan blood Hear o'er their head th' exulting goddess sing These are my favourite sons, and mine their warrior King 1" Thro' Albion's plains while wide and far Swells the tumultuous din of war, While from the loom, the forge, the flail, From Labour's plough, from Commerce' sail, All ranks to martial impulse yield, And grasp the spear, and brave the field, Do weeds our plains uncultur'd hide ? Does drooping Commerce quit the tide ? Do languid Art and Industry Their useful cares no longer ply ? Never did Agriculture's toil With richer harvests clothe the soil Ne'er were our barks more amply fraught, Ne'er were with happier skill our ores, our fleeces wrought. While the proud foe, to swell invasion's host, His bleeding country's countless millions drains, And Gallia mourns thro' her embattled coast, Unpeopled cities, and unlabour'd plains, To guard and to avenge this favour'd land, Tho' gleams the sword in ev'ry Briton's hand, Still o'er our fields waves Concord's silken wing, Still the Arts flourish, and the Muses sing While mortal Truth, and Faith's celestial ray, Adorn, illumine, and bless, a George's prosperous sway. See Pind. Isth. Ode viii. t Ibid.

THE CURATE.—A FRAGMENT.

VOLUNTEERS."

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