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PINDAR, Olymp. II.

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AUGHTER of Chaos and old Night,

Cimmerian Muse, all hail !
That wrapt in never-twinkling gloom canst write,
And shadowest meaning with thy dusky veil !


* I take the liberty of inserting the two following Odes, though I cannot, with strict propriety, print them as my own composition. The truth is, they were written in concert with a friend, to whose labours I am always happy to add my own: I mean the Author of the Jealous Wife.

What Poet sings, and strikes the strings ?
It was the mighty Theban spoke.

He from the ever-living Lyre

With magic hand elicits fire. Heard


the din of Modern Rhimers bray ? It was cool M--n: or warm G-y,

Involv'd in tenfold smoke.

1. 2.

The shallow Fop in antic vest,

Tir’d of the beaten road, Proud to be singularly drest, Changes, with every changing moon, the mode. Say, shall not then the heav'n-born Muses too

Variety pursue ? Shall not applauding critics hail the vogue ? Whether the Muse the stile of Cambria’s fons,

Or the rude gabble of the Huns,

Or the broader dialect

Of Caledonia she affect,
Or take, Hibernia, thy still ranker brogue ?

I. 3.

On this terreftial ball

The tyrant, Fashion, governs all.
She, fickle Goddess, whom, in days of yore,
The Ideot Moria, on the banks of Seine,
Unto an antic fool, hight Andrew, bore.

Long she paid him with disdain,
And long his pangs in silence he conceald:
At length, in happy hour, his love-fick pain
On thy blest Calends, April, he reveal’d.
From their embraces sprung,

Ever changing, ever ranging,
Fashion, Goddess ever young.

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Perch'd on the dubious height, She loves to ride,

Upon a weather-cock, astride.
Each blast that blows, around she goes,
While nodding o'er her crest,


Emblem of her magic pow'r,

The light Cameleon stands confest,
Changing it's hues a thousand times an hour.

And in a vest is she array’d,
Of many a dancing moon-beam made,

Nor zoneless is her waist :
But fair and beautiful, I ween,

As the ceftos-cinctur'd Queen,
Is with the Rainbow's shadowy girdle brac’d.

II. 2.


She bids pursue the fav’rite road

Of lofty cloud-capt Ode.
Meantime each Bard, with eager speed,
Vaults on the Pegasean Steed :
Yet not that Pegasus, of yore
Which th' illustrious Pindar bore,

But one of nobler breed.
High blood and youth his lusty veins inspire.

From Tottipontimoy He came,
Who knows not, Tottipontimoy, thy name ?
The bloody-shoulder'd Arab was his Sire.

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* His White-nose. He on fam'd Doncastria’s plains

Resign'd his fated breath :
In vain for life the struggling courser strains.

Ah! who can run the race with death?
The tyrant's speed, or man or steed,

Strives all in vain to fly.
He leads the chace, he wins the race,

We stumble, fall, and die.

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Third from Whitenose springs

Pegasus with eagle wings :
Light o'er the plain, as dancing cork,

With many a bound he beats the ground,
While all the Turf with acclamation rings.
He won Northampton, Lincoln, Oxford, York:

He too Newmarket won.
There Granta's Son


* The Author is either mistaken in this place, or has else indulged himself - in a very unwarrantable poetical licence. Whitenose was not the Sire, but a Son of the Godolphin Arabian. See my Calendar.


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