TIROCINI U M.

IT is not from his form, in which we trace

Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace,
That man, the master of this globe, derives
His right of empire over all that lives,
That form indeed, th' affociate of a mind
Vaft in its pow'rs, ethereal in its kind,
That form, the labour of almighty skill,
Fram'd for the fervice of a free-born will,
Afferts precedence, and bespeaks controul,
But borrows all its grandeur from the foul.
Hers is the ftate, the splendour, and the throne,
An intellectual kingdom, all her own.

For her, the mem'ry fills her ample page

With truths pour'd down from ev'ry distant age; For her amaffes an unbounded store,

The wisdom of great nations, now no more;

Though laden, not incumber'd with her spoil,
Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil,

When copiously supplied, then most enlarg'd,
Still to be fed, and not to be furcharg❜d.
For her, the fancy roving unconfin'd,
The prefent mufe of ev'ry penfive mind,
Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue
To nature's fcenes, than nature ever knew;
At her command, winds rise and waters roar,
Again the lays them slumb'ring on the shore,
With flow'r and fruit the wilderness supplies,
Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise.

For her, the judgment, umpire in the strife, That grace and nature have to wage through life,

Quick-fighted arbiter of good and ill,
Appointed fage preceptor to the will,
Condemns, approves, and with a faithful voice
Guides the decifion of a doubtful choice.
Why did the fiat of a God give birth
To yon fair fun, and his attendant earth;
And, when descending he refigns the skies,
Why takes the gentler moon her turn to rife,
Whom ocean feels through all his countless

waves,

And owns her pow'r on ev'ry fhore he laves ?
Why do the seasons still enrich the year,
Fruitful and young as in their first career?

Spring