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The bloom of youth, the majesty of years,
The soften'd aspect, innocent and kind, The sigh of sorrow, and the streaming tears,
Resistless all, their various pow'r combin'd.
In her fair hand a silver harp she bore,
string, Give tranquil joy the breast ne'er knew before,
Or raise the soul on rapture's airy wing. By grief impell’d, I heard her heave a sigh, While thus therapid strain resounded thro'thesky:
Haste, ye sister powers of song,
Hasten from the shady grove,
Sweetly to the voice of love.
Where, indulging mirthful pleasures,
Light you press the flow'ry green,
Cull the wreaths for Fancy's queen.
Where your gently-flowing numbers,
Floating on the fragrant breeze,
On the downy bed of ease.
For graver strains prepare the plaintive lyre,
That wakes the softest feelings of the soul ; Let lonely Grief the melting verse inspire,
Let deep’ning Sorrow's solemn accents roll.
Rack'd by the hand of rude Disease
Behold our fav’rite Poet lies!
Far from his couch ungrateful flies.
The blissful Muse, whose favouring smile
So lately warm'd his peaceful breast,
In Transport's radiant garments drest, With darksome grandeur and enfeeblid blaze, Sinks in the shades of night, and shuns his eager The gaudy train, who wait on Spring ,
Ting’d with the pomp of vernal pride, The youths who mount on Pleasure's
And idly sport on Thames's side, With cool regard their various arts employ, Nor rouse the drooping mind, nor give the pause
Ha! what forms, with port sublime ,
Glide along in sullen mood,
High above Misfortune's flood ?
They seize their harps, they strike the lyre,
With rapid hand, with freedom's fire. Obedient Nature hears the lofty sound, And Snowdon's airy cliffs the heavenly strains re
 Ode on Spring.
In pomp of state, behold they wait,
With arms outstretch'd, and aspects kind, To snatch on high to yonder sky,
The child of Fancy left behind: Forgot the woes of Cambria's fatal day, By rapture's blaze impell’d, they swell the artless
But ah! in vain they strive to sooth,
With gentle arts, the tort'ring hours;
Her baleful gifts profusely pours.
Behold she comes, the fiend forlorn,
Array'd in Horror's settled gloom ;
And triumphs in th' infernal doom.
 Hymn to Adversity.
No more the soft Æolian flute 
Breathes thro' the heart themelting strain; The powers of Harmony are mute,
And leave the once-delightful plain ; With heavy wing, I see them beat the air, Damp'd by the leaden hand of comfortless Despair.
Yet stay, O! stay, celestial pow'rs,
And with a hand of kind regard
Destructive on the fav'rite bard;
Hark the Fatal Sisters  join,
And with Horror's mutt'ring sounds, Weave the tissue of his line,
While the dreadful spell resounds.
 The Progress of Poesy.
 The Fatal Sisters, an Ode.