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By the Rev. W. MASON, M. A.

[THE following second attempt of Mr. MASON, at the ROYAL SACK, was not inserted in the celebrated collection of Odes formed by Sir JOHN HAWKINS.-What might be the motive of the learned Knight for this omission can at present only be known to himself. Whether he treasured it up for the next edition of his Life of Dr. JOHNSON, or whether he condemned it for its too close resemblance to a former elegant lyric effusion of the Rev. Author, must remain for time, or Mr. FRANCIS BARBER, to develope.→ Having, however, been fortunate enough to procure a copy, we have printed both the Odes in opposite leaves, that, in case the latter supposition should turn out to be well founded, the public may decide how far the worthy magistrate was justified in this exclusion.]

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To the Honourable WILLIAM PITT.


Μή νύν; οτι φθονεραὶ

Θνατῶν φρένας ἀμφικρέμανται ἐλπίδες ;
Μήτ ̓ ἀξετάν ποτε σιγάτο πατρώαν,
Μηδὲ τύσδ ̓ ὕμνωση

PINDAR. Isthm. Ode II.


'Tis May's meridian reign; yet Eurus cold
Forbids each shrinking thorn its leaves unfold,
Or hang with silver buds her rural throne:
No primrose shower from her green lap she throws *,
No daisy, violet, or cowslip blows,

And Flora weeps her fragrant offspring gone.
Hoar frost arrests the genial dew;
To wake, to warble, and to woo,

No linnet calls his drooping love:
Shall then the poet strike the fyre,
When mute are all the feather'd quire,

And Nature fails to warm the syrens of the grove?

* This expression is taken from Milton's Song on May Morning, to which this stanza in general alludes, and the 4th verse in the next.


To the Right Hon. WILLIAM PITT.


"Give not the Mitre now!


"Lest base-tongued ENVY, squinting at my brow,
"Cry, Lo! the price for CAVENDISH betray'd!'
"But in good time nor that, O PITT! forget,
"Nor my more early service yet unpaid,
"My puffs on CHATHAM in his offspring's aid,
"Nor what this loyal Ode shall add to swell the debt."



"Tis now the TENTH of APRIL; yet the wind In frigid fetters doth each blossom bind;

No silver buds her rural throne emboss;

No violets blue from her green lap she throws*;

O lack-a-daisy! not a daisy blows,

And (ere she has them) FLORA weeps their loss.

Hoar frost, with bailiff's grizly hue,

At Winter's suit, arrests the dew;

No Cuckow wakes her drowsy.mate:
His harp then shall a Parson strum,
When other Blackbirds all are dumb,

When neither Starlings, Daws, nor Magpies prate?

* Improved from Milton.



He shall: for what the sullen Spring denies,
The orient beam of virtuous youth supplies:

That moral dawn be his inspiring flame.
Beyond the dancing radiance of the East,
Thy glory, son of CHATHAM! fires his breast;
And, proud to celebrate thy vernal fame,
Hark! from his lyre the strain ascends,
Which but to Freedom's fav'rite friends

That lyre disdains to sound.

Hark and approve, as did thy sire*,
The lays which once with kindred fire

His muse in Attic mood made MONA's oaks rebounds


Dinan 251

Long silent since, save when, in KEPPEL's name,
Detraction, murd'ring BRITAIN'S naval fame,

Rous'd into sounds of scorn th' indignant string †.

But now, replenish'd with a richer theme,


The vase of harmony shall pour its stream,

Fann'd by free Fancy's rainbow-tinctur'd wing.
Thy country too shall hail the song,
Her echoing heart the notes prolong;
While they alone with envy sight,
Whose rancour to thy parent dead



Aim'd, ere his funeral rites were paid,

With vain vindictive rage to starve his progeny.

*The poem of Caractacus was read in MS. by the late Earl of Chatham, who honoured it with an approbation which the author is here proud to record.

+ See Ode to the Naval Officers of Great Britain, written 1779. See the motto from Pindar.


He shall: for what the sulky Spring denies,
An annual butt of sugar'd SACK supplies;

That beverage sweet be his inspiring flame.
Cloth'd in the radiant influence of the East,
Thy glory, son of CHATHAM! fires his breast
And swift to adulate thy vernal fame,
Hark! from his lyre a strain is heard,


In hopes, ere long, to be preferr`d,

To sit in state 'midst mitred peers.

Hark and approve, as did thy sire,

The lays which, nodding by the fire,

To gentle slumbers sooth'd his listening ears:


Long silent since, save when, on t'other side,
In KEPPEL's praise to little purpose tried,

I rous'd to well-feign'd scorn th' indignant string.
But now, replete with a more hopeful theme,
The o'erflowing ink-bottle shall pour its stream,
Through quills by Dulness pluck'd from gosling's
downy wing.

ST. JAMES's too shall hail the song,
Her echoing walls the notes prolong,

Whilst they alone with sorrow sigh,
Whose reverence, for thy parent dead
Now bids them hang their drooping head,
And weep, to mark the conduct of his progeny.

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