Warton, like his brother, did good service in resisting the literary despotism of Pope, and in directing the attention of the public to the forgotten treasures of old English poetry. He was a man of extensive learning, a very fair and candid, as well as acute critic, and his 'Ode to Fancy' proves him to have possessed no ordinary genius. ODE TO FANCY. O parent of each lovely Muse, Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse, O'er all my artless songs preside, My footsteps to thy temple guide, To offer at thy turf-built shrine, In golden cups no costly wine, No murdered fatling of the flock, But flowers and honey from the rock. O nymph with loosely-flowing hair, With buskined leg, and bosom bare, Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, Thy brows with Indian feathers crowned, Waving in thy snowy hand An all-commanding magic wand, Of power to bid fresh gardens blow, 'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow, Whose rapid wings thy flight convey Through air, and over earth and sea, While the vast various landscape lies Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes. O lover of the desert, hail! Say, in what deep and pathless vale, Or on what hoary mountain's side, 'Mid fall of waters, you reside, 'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green and grassy dales between, 'Mid forests dark of aged oak, Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke, Where never human art appeared, Nor even one straw-roofed cot was reared, Where Nature seems to sit alone, Majestic on a craggy throne; Tell me the path, sweet wanderer, tell, To thy unknown sequestered cell, Where woodbines cluster round the door, Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor, And on whose top a hawthorn blows, Amid whose thickly-woven boughs Some nightingale still builds her nest, Each evening warbling thee to rest: Then lay me by the haunted stream, Rapt in some wild, poetic dream, In converse while methinks I rove With Spenser through a fairy grove; Till, suddenly awaked, I hear Strange whispered music in my ear, And my glad soul in bliss is drowned By the sweetly-soothing sound! Me, goddess, by the right hand lead Sometimes through the yellow mead, Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive court; Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, And lightly trip with nimble feet, Nodding their lily-crowned heads, Where Laughter rose-lipped Hebe leads; Where Echo walks steep hills among, Listening to the shepherd's song: Yet not these flowery fields of joy Can long my pensive mind employ; Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly, To meet the matron Melancholy, Goddess of the tearful eye, That loves to fold her arms, and sigh; Let us with silent footsteps go To charnels and the house of woe, To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs, Where each sad night some virgin comes, With throbbing breast, and faded cheek, Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek; Or to some abbey's mouldering towers, Where, to avoid cold wintry showers, The naked beggar shivering lies, While whistling tempests round her rise,