EPODE.

Yet, even where'er the least appear'd, The admiring world thy hand revered; Still, 'midst the scatter'd states around, Some remnants of her strength were found; They saw, by what escaped the storm, How wondrous rose her perfect form; How in the great, the labour'd whole, Each mighty master pour'd his soul! For sunny Florence, seat of art, Beneath her vines preserved a part, Till they, whom Science loved to name, (O who could fear it?) quench'd her flame. And lo, an humbler relic laid In jealous Pisa's olive shade! See small Marino joins the theme, Though least, not last in thy esteem: Strike, louder strike the ennobling strings To those, whose merchant sons were kings; To him, who, deck'd with pearly pride, In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride; Hail, port of glory, wealth, and pleasure, Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure: Nor e'er her former pride relate, To sad Liguria's bleeding state. Ah no! more pleased thy haunts I seek, On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak: (Where, when the favour'd of thy choice, The daring archer heard thy voice; Forth from his eyrie roused in dread, The ravening eagle northward fled:) Or dwell in willow'd meads more near, With those to whom thy stork is dear: Those whom the rod of Alva bruised, Whose crown a British queen refused! The magic works, thou feel'st the strains, One holier name alone remains; The perfect spell shall then avail, Hail, nymph, adored by Britain, hail!