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Πρέσβιςα Μακάρων Moft bleft among the blessed.-Let it be a pre-eminence of any kind, to the exclufion of most venerable-ill fuiting a Goddess, who claims with Venus fuch an Address as this

"Alma".

"Hominum Divûmque Voluptas,

"Lovelieft"

"Delight of Heav'n and Earth,

Had Johnson united to his powerful understanding and extenfive erudition, a true Taste, he had been the Aristotle of the moderns. Nature has drawn a broad line between Tafte and Judgment; and feems to delight in bestowing these advantages with a capricious hand-favo cum joco-Did not Locke prefer Blackmore to Milton; and was not Florus, the greatest Coxcomb among Writers, the favourite with Montefquieu?

The images, or, rather the circumstances, in the Poem before us are crowded on one another without taste or distinction; fome unneceffarily repeated, others obfcurely expreffed. Why then, it will be asked, have you chofen it for the object of your imitation? I anfwer, the Outline pleafed me, though the Finifhing did not: in fhort, I thought I could improve it.

5

HYMN

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FIRS

IRST-born of Heaven! for without thee,
Blefs'd Health, the Gods themselves
would be

Opprefs'd by Immortality.

Come then, thou beft of bleffings! come,
And make my humble roof thy home;
Propitious come, and shed a ray
Of gladness on my setting Day.
For if there be in wealth a charm,
If joys the Parent's bofom warm,
Whate'er the good, to thee 'tis giv'n
To perfect ev'ry boon of Heav'n.
If Diadems the fancy please,

Thy hand muft make them fit with ease:
Loft without thee were Cupid's wiles,
And Venus owes thee half her fmiles.

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Whate'er we hope, whate'er endure,
Thou giv'ft th' enjoyment, or the cure;
Where'er thou spread'st thy balmy wing,
Ills vanish, blooming pleasures spring;
All wishes meet in thee alone,
For Happiness and Health are one.

то

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ASSUME, my Verfe, thy wonted art,

While all in expectation ftand,

Canft thou not paint the willing heart
That coyly gives the trembling hand?

Canft thou not summon from the sky

Soft Venus and her milk-white Doves? Mark-in an eafy yoke they fly,

An emblem of unfever'd loves.

Now, Mira, art thou pale with fear ;

Look not, thou Sweetness, thus forlorn;
She fmiles-and now fuch tints appear
As steal upon the filver morn.

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Quick, Hymen, to the temple lead;
Cupid, thy victory pursue:

In blushes rose the confcious Maid;
Trust me, she'll fet in blushes too.

Well may the Lover fondly gaze

On thy bright cheek, and bloom of youth, Impatient of the calmer praise

Of fweetness, innocence, and truth.

Yet thefe fhall to thy latest hour,
Thefe only fhall, fecure thy blifs :
When the pale lip hath loft its power,
These shall give nectar to the kiss.

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