ODE TO A GENTLEMAN UPON HIS TRAVELS THROUGH ITALY. Joseph Warton Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T116245 1135 K093079.002 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. II. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 250-252. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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ODE TO A GENTLEMAN UPON HIS TRAVELS THROUGH ITALY . BY THE SAME . WHILE I with fond officious care For you my chorded shell prepare , And not unmindful frame an humble lay ; Where shall this verse my Cynthio find ? What scene of art now charms your mind ? Say , on what sacred spot of Roman ground you stray ? Perhaps you cull each valley's bloom , To strew o'er Virgil's laurell'd tomb , Whence oft at midnight echoing voices sound ; For at that hour of silence , there The shades of ancient Bards repair , To join in choral song his hallow'd urn around : Or wander in the cooling shade Of Sabine bowers , where Horace stray'd , And oft repeat in eager thought elate , ( As round in classic search you trace With curious eye the pleasing place ) " That fount he lov'd , and there beneath that hill he sate . " How longs my raptur'd breast with you Great Raphael's magic strokes to view , To whose blest hand each charm the Graces gave ! Whence each fair form with beauty glows , Like that of Venus , when she rose Naked in blushing charms from Ocean's hoary wave . As oft by roving fancy led To smooth Clitumnus' banks you tread , What awful thoughts his fabled waters raise ! While the low-thoughted swain , whose flock Grazes around , from some steep rock With vulgar disregard his mazy course surveys . Now thro' the ruin'd domes my Muse Your steps with eager flight pursues , That their cleft piles on Tyber's plains present , Among whose hollow-winding cells Forlorn and wild Rome's Genius dwells , His golden sceptre broke , and purple mantle rent . Oft to those mossy mouldering walls , Those caverns dark , and silent halls , Let me repair by midnight's paly fires ; There muse on Empire's fallen state , And frail Ambition's hapless fate , While more than mortal thoughts the solemn scene inspires . What lust of power from the cold North Could tempt those Vandal-robbers forth , Fair Italy , thy vine-clad vales to wast ! Whose hands profane , with hostile blade , Thy story'd temples dar'd invade , And all thy Parian seats of Attic art defac'd . They , weeping Art in fetters bound , And gor'd her breast with many a wound , And veil'd her charms in clouds of thickest night ; Sad Poesy , much-injur'd maid , They drove to some dim convent's shade , And quench'd in gloomy mist her lamp's resplendent light . There long she wept , to darkness doom'd , 'Till Cosmo's hand her light relum'd , That once again in losty Tasso shone ; Since has sweet Spenser caught her fire , She breath'd once more in Milton's lyre , And warm'd the soul divine of Shakespear , Fancy's son . Nor she , mild queen , will cease to smile On her Britannia's much-lov'd isle , Where these her best , her favourite three were born , While The author of the Pleasures of Imagination . Theron warbles Graecian strains , Or polish'd Dodington remains , The drooping train of Arts to cherish and adorn .