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ODE from the Latin of Dr. Pitcairn.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

ODE from the Latin of Dr. Pitcairn.

Instruct me, Horace, whom to sing,
By nature form'd above the rest,
To try the Pulse, or tune the String,
Apollo's darling Son confess'd.
Apollo, Master of the Muse,
Alike the force of Medicine sways;
The God, whose genial heat renews
Whate'er his golden lamp surveys.
The Snakes, on Epidaurus nurs'd,
His beams with saving venom fraught;
And Chiron, thence enlighten'd first,
With grateful care his Offspring taught.
Disclos'd by Him, the healing Pow'r
Of verdant Fields is understood;
And Herbs, selected in an hour
Auspicious to the Just and Good.

74

By his command the Muses' hill
His Æsculapius learn'd to climb,
Though unexperienc'd in the skill
To cure disease by Magic rime.
For Orpheus was the first, who found
The source of sickness in the Soul,
And taught his Harp's mysterious sound
Its rebel passions to controul.
Such were the fruits of ancient art,
Ere Ilium blaz'd with Grecian flame,
Or great Achilles shook the Dart,
That rais'd his own, and Homer's name.
But now a more distinguish'd Pair,
Like Leda's sparkling Sons, arise;
Predestin'd, by Apollo's care,
To grace and rule the British skies.
A Wilmot's and a Frewen's name
Are by our Cam and Isis blest;
'Tis theirs, contagious fires to tame,
And death's impending stroke arrest.
Ye Twins of Art, with friendly rays
O'er sacred Physic still preside;
And us, bewilder'd in the maze
Of Nature's various windings, guide.