AN ODE. (How breathes the morn her incense round)

How breathes the morn her incense round, And sweetens ev'ry sylvan scene? Wild warblings thro' the groves resound, And op'ning flow'rs bedeck the green.

Bright o'er the hills the solar ray Its gaily trembling radiance spreads, Pleas'd on the glassy fount to play, And pearl the dew-bespangled meads.

How sweet this hour the fields to rove, When Nature sheds her charms profuse; Or hide me in th' embow'ring grove, And court the thought-inspiring Muse?

What joy, aside the plaintive fount, Dissolv'd in pleasing thought, to stray; And swift on Fancy's wing to mount, And tread the bright ethereal way?

Thus musing o'er the charming plains, (Where G—me the just and good retires, Where Laura breathes her tender strains, Whom ev'ry graceful muse inspires)

Young Damon pour'd his artless lay, Beam'd from imagination's light, When sudden from the realms of day, A form of glory struck his sight.

Wisdom's grave matron, from the skies, Before the trembling youth appear'd, (Tho' seen but by poetic eyes) And thus to speak the dame was heard.

Would'st thou, O youth, these scenes enjoy, The solemn grove and fragrant lawn, And pleasure taste without alloy, Wake jolly HEALTH at early dawn.

Banish Ambition from thy breast, And sordid-minded Av'rice fly; Nor let pale Spleen thy ease infest, Nor gloomy Sorrow cloud thine eye.

Thy heart an off'ring nobly yield At Virtue's high exalted shrine; Thy soul let Resolution shield, And e'er to dove-ey'd Peace incline:

Let Cheerfulness, with placid mein, Hold a firm empire o'er thy heart, And sweet Content shall ceaseless reign, And never-ending bliss impart.

Then shall th' immortal Nine unfold What sweets the sylvan scenes can give; In heav'n thy name shall be enroll'd, And others learn like thee to live.