4 Wisdom, in sable garb array'd, Immersed in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid! With leaden eye, that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend; Warm Charity, the general friend, With Justice, to herself severe, And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. 5 Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head, Dread Goddess! lay thy chastening hand, Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, Nor circled with the vengeful band: (As by the impious thou art seen), With thundering voice and threatening mien, With screaming Horror's funeral cry, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. 6 Thy form benign, O Goddess! wear, Thy milder influence impart, Thy philosophic train be there, To soften, not to wound, my heart: The generous spark extinct revive; Teach me to love and to forgive; Exact my own defects to scan; What others are to feel, and know myself a Man. * * * * * V.--THE PROGRESS OF POESY. PINDARIC. ADVERTISEMENT.--When the author first published this and the following ode, he was advised, even by his friends, to subjoin some few explanatory notes, but had too much respect for the understanding of his readers to take that liberty. [Greek: Phonanta sunetoisin es De to pan hermaeneon Chatizei.-- PINDAR, _Olymp._ ii.] I.--1. Awake, Aeolian lyre! awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings; From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take; The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Through verdant vales and Ceres' golden reign; Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour; The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar. I.--2. Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting Shell! the sullen Cares And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command: Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak and lightnings of his eye. I.--3.