On Imagination

THY various works, imperial queen, we see,How bright their forms! how deck'd with pompby thee!Thy wond'rous acts in beauteous order stand,And all attest how potent is thine hand.From Helicon's refulgent heights attend,Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend:To tell her glories with a faithful tongue,Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,Till some lov'd object strikes her wand'ring eyes,Whose silken fetters all the senses bind,And soft captivity involves the mind.Imagination! who can sing thy force?Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?Soaring through air to find the bright abode,Th' empyreal palace of the thund'ring God,We on thy pinions can surpass the wind,And leave the rolling universe behind:From star to star the mental optics rove,Measure the skies, and range the realms above.There in one view we grasp the mighty whole,Or with new worlds amaze th' unbounded soul.Though Winter frowns to Fancy's raptur'd eyesThe fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,And bid their waters murmur o'er the sands.Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,And with her flow'ry riches deck the plain;Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round,And all the forest may with leaves be crown'd:Show'rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.Such is thy pow'r, nor are thine orders vain,O thou the leader of the mental train:In full perfection all thy works are wrought,And thine the sceptre o'er the realms of thought.Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,Of subject-passions sov'reign ruler thou;At thy command joy rushes on the heart,And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.Fancy might now her silken pinions tryTo rise from earth, and sweep th' expanse on high:From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise,Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,While a pure stream of light o'erflows the skies.The monarch of the day I might behold,And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;Winter austere forbids me to aspire,And northern tempests damp the rising fire;They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea,Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.

THROUGH airy roads he wings his instant flightTo purer regions of celestial light;Enlarg'd he sees unnumber'd systems roll,Beneath him sees the universal whole,Planets on planets run their destin'd round,And circling wonders fill the vast profound.Th' ethereal now, and now th' empyreal skiesWith growing splendors strike his wond'ring eyes:The angels view him with delight unknown,Press his soft hand, and seat him on his throne;Then smilling thus: "To this divine abode,"The seat of saints, of seraphs, and of God,"Thrice welcome thou." The raptur'd babe replies,"Thanks to my God, who snatch'd me to the skies,"E'er vice triumphant had possess'd my heart,"E'er yet the tempter had beguil d my heart,"E'er yet on sin's base actions I was bent,"E'er yet I knew temptation's dire intent;"E'er yet the lash for horrid crimes I felt,"E'er vanity had led my way to guilt,"But, soon arriv'd at my celestial goal,"Full glories rush on my expanding soul."Joyful he spoke: exulting cherubs roundClapt their glad wings, the heav'nly vaults resound.Say, parents, why this unavailing moan?Why heave your pensive bosoms with the groan?To Charles, the happy subject of my song,A brighter world, and nobler strains belong.Say would you tear him from the realms aboveBy thoughtless wishes, and prepost'rous love?Doth his felicity increase your pain?Or could you welcome to this world againThe heir of bliss? with a superior airMethinks he answers with a smile severe,"Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me there."But still you cry, "Can we the sigh forbear,"And still and still must we not pour the tear?"Our only hope, more dear than vital breath,"Twelve moons revolv'd, becomes the prey of death;"Delightful infant, nightly visions give"Thee to our arms, and we with joy receive,"We fain would clasp the Phantom to our breast,"The Phantom flies, and leaves the soul unblest."To yon bright regions let your faith ascend,Prepare to join your dearest infant friendIn pleasures without measure, without end.

SAY, muse divine, can hostile scenes delightThe warrior's bosom in the fields of fight?Lo! here the christian and the hero joinWith mutual grace to form the man divine.In H-----D see with pleasure and surprise,Where valour kindles, and where virtue lies:Go, hero brave, still grace the post of fame,And add new glories to thine honour'd name,Still to the field, and still to virtue true:Britannia glories in no son like you.

To the Right Honourable WILLIAM, Earlof DARTMOUTH, His Majesty's PrincipalSecretary of State for North-America, &c.

HAIL, happy day, when, smiling like the morn,Fair Freedom rose New-England to adorn:The northern clime beneath her genial ray,Dartmouth, congratulates thy blissful sway:Elate with hope her race no longer mourns,Each soul expands, each grateful bosom burns,While in thine hand with pleasure we beholdThe silken reins, and Freedom's charms unfold.Long lost to realms beneath the northern skiesShe shines supreme, while hated faction dies:Soon as appear'd the Goddess long desir'd,Sick at the view, she languish'd and expir'd;Thus from the splendors of the morning lightThe owl in sadness seeks the caves of night.No more, America, in mournful strainOf wrongs, and grievance unredress'd complain,No longer shalt thou dread the iron chain,Which wanton Tyranny with lawless handHad made, and with it meant t' enslave the land.Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song,Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung,Whence flow these wishes for the common good,By feeling hearts alone best understood,I, young in life, by seeming cruel fateWas snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy seat:What pangs excruciating must molest,What sorrows labour in my parent's breast?Steel'd was that soul and by no misery mov'dThat from a father seiz'd his babe belov'd:Such, such my case. And can I then but prayOthers may never feel tyrannic sway?For favours past, great Sir, our thanks are due,And thee we ask thy favours to renew,Since in thy pow'r, as in thy will before,To sooth the griefs, which thou did'st once deplore.May heav'nly grace the sacred sanction giveTo all thy works, and thou for ever liveNot only on the wings of fleeting Fame,Though praise immortal crowns the patriot's name,But to conduct to heav'ns refulgent fane,May fiery coursers sweep th' ethereal plain,And bear thee upwards to that blest abode,Where, like the prophet, thou shalt find thy God.