ODE TO TASTE by THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER

LEAVE not @3Britannia@1's Isle; since @3Pope@1 is fled
To meet his @3Homer@1 in @3Elysian@1 Bowers,
What Bard shall dare resume
His various-sounding Harp?
Let not resistless Dulness o'er us spread
Deep @3Gothic@1 Night; for lo! the Fiend appears,
To blast each blooming Bay
That decks our barren Shores.
Say beauteous Queen of Life-refining Arts,
Who wont to visit oft at midnight Hour
Sweet @3Virgil@1's laurell'd Tomb
On @3Naples'@1 fertile Shore:
Say where thy Dwelling is? or on the Banks
Of smooth @3Ilissus,@1 sage-inspiring Stream,
Where @3Plato@1 thought of old,
And hoar @3Musæus@1 walk'd!
Still dost thou tread the sacred Ground where once
Thy Votaries, or strung the golden Lyre,
Or taught the moral Song
Of sweet Philosophy?
Or in some ruin'd Temple dost thou dwell
Of ancient @3Rome,@1 deserted of the World,
Where prostrate lies in Dust
The shapely Column's Height;
Where thou may'st still behold with raptur'd Eye
The beauteous Arts of fair Antiquity
That still can charm the Mind,
Tho' smote by Time's rough Hand.
When Man a Savage wander'd in the Woods
(As hoar Tradition tells) in ancient Days,
Wont from the laden Oak
To shake his barb'rous Food;
Thy Pow'r reduc'd him from his native Wilds
And to the soft Civilities of Life
Subdu'd his stubborn Heart;
And taught to raise the Dome
Well-archt, to string the Lyre, the breathing Bust
To form, and guide the Pencil, Heav'n-born Arts
That harmonize the Mind,
And fit for social Joys.
Thee once thou fairest Daughter of the Muse
The @3Goth@1 stern-looking bound in cruel Chains,
And gor'd with many a Wound
Thy bleeding Bosom fair,
When pouring o'er @3Italia@1's tempting Plains
With Hand profane thy Temples he deform'd,
And all thy beauteous Domes
Hurl'd wildly to the Ground!

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