Forth from the rustic altar swift I stray'd,
'Aid my firm purpose, ye celestial Pow'rs!
Aid me to quell the sordid breast,' I said;
And threw my javelin tow'rds their hostile tow'rs'.
Think not regretful I survey the deed,

Or added years no more the zeal allow ;
Still, still observant, to the grove I speed,
The shrine embellish, and repeat the vow.
Sworn from his cradle Rome's relentless foe,
Such generous hate the Punic champion 2 bore;
Thy lake, O Thrasimene! beheld it glow,

And Cannæ's walls and Trebia's crimson shore. But let grave annals paint the warrior's fame; Fair shine his arms in history enroll❜d; Whilst humbler lyres his civil worth proclaim, His nobler hate of avarice and gold.— Now Punic pride its final eve survey'd, Its hosts exhausted, and its fleets on fire; Patient the victor's lurid frown obey'd, And saw the' unwilling elephants retire. But when their gold depress'd the yielding scale, Their gold in pyramidic plenty pil'd,

He saw the' unutterable grief prevail;

He saw their tears, and in his fury smil❜d. 'Think not,' he cried, 'ye view the smiles of ease, Or this firm breast disclaims a patriot's pain; I smile, but from a soul estrang'd to peace, Frantic with grief, delirious with disdain. 'But were it cordial, this detested smile, Seems it less timely than the grief ye show? O sons of Carthage! grant me to revile The sordid source of your indecent woe.

I The Roman ceremony in declaring war. 2 Hannibal.

< Why weep ye now? ye saw with tearless eye When your fleet perish'd on the Punic wave; Where lurk'd the coward tear, the lazy sigh,

When Tyre's imperial state commenc'd a slave? "Tis past―O Carthage! vanquish'd, honour'd shade! Go, the mean sorrows of thy sons deplore; Had Freedom shar'd the vow to Fortune paid, She ne'er, like Fortune, had forsook thy shore.' He ceas'd-Abash'd the conscious audience hear, Their pallid cheeks a crimson blush unfold, Yet o'er that virtuous blush distreams a tear, And falling, moistens their abandon'd gold 3.

HE COMPARES HIS HUMBLE FORTUNE WITH THE
DISTRESS OF OTHERS, AND HIS SUBJECTION TO
DELIA WITH THE MISERABLE SERVITUDE OF AN
AFRICAN SLAVE.

WHY droops this heart with fancied woes forlorn?
Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky?
What pensive crowds, by ceaseless labours worn,
What myriads wish to be as bless'd as I!
What though my roofs devoid of pomp arise,
Nor tempt the proud to quit his destin'd way?
Nor costly art my flowery dales disguise,

Where only simple Friendship deigns to stray?
See the wild sons of Lapland's chill domain,
That scoop their couch beneath the drifted snows!
How void of hope they ken the frozen plain,

Where the sharp east for ever, ever blows!

5 By the terms forced upon the Carthaginians by Scipio, they were to deliver up all the elephants, and to pay near two millions sterling.

Slave though I be, to Delia's eyes a slave,
My Delia's eyes endear the bands I wear;
The sigh she causes well becomes the brave,
The pang she causes 'tis ev'n bliss to bear.
See the poor native quit the Libyan shores,
Ah! not in love's delightful fetters bound!
No radiant smile his dying peace restores,
Nor love, nor fame,nor friendship,heals his wound.
Let vacant bards display their boasted woes;
Shall I the mockery of grief display?
No; let the Muse his piercing pangs disclose,
Who bleeds and weeps his sum of life away!
On the wild beach in mournful guise he stood,
Ere the shrill boatswain gave the hated sign;
He dropp'd a tear unseen into the flood,

He stole one secret moment to repine.
Yet the Muse listen'd to the plaints he made,
Such moving plaints as Nature could inspire;
To me the Muse his tender plea convey'd,

But smooth'd and suited to the sounding lyre. ( Why am I ravish'd from my native strand? What savage race protects this impious gain? Shall foreign plagues infest this teeming land, [main? And more than sea-born monsters plough the 'Here the dire locusts' horrid swarms prevail; Here the blue asps with livid poison swell; Here the dry dipsa writhes his sinuous mail ; Can we not here secure from envy dwell? When the grim lion urg'd his cruel chase, When the stern panther sought his midnight prey, What fate reserv'd me for this Christian race'? O race more polish'd, more severe, than they! 1 Spoken by a savage.

Ye prowling wolves! pursue my latest cries; Thou hungry tiger! leave thy reeking den; Ye sandy wastes! in rapid eddies rise;

O tear me from the whips and scorns of men! < Yet in their face superior beauty glows;

Are smiles the mien of rapine and of wrong? Yet from their lip the voice of mercy flows, And ev❜n religion dwells upon their tongue.

Of blissful haunts they tell, and brighter climes, Where gentle minds, convey'd by Death, repair; But stain'd with blood, and crimson'd o'er with crimes,

Say, shall they merit what they paint so fair? 'No; careless, hopeless of those fertile plains, Rich by our toils, and by our sorrows gay, They ply our labours and enhance our pains, And feign these distant regions to repay.

For them our tusky elephant expires;

For them we drain the mine's embowell'd gold; Where rove the brutal nations' wild desires?— Our limbs are purchas'd and our life is sold! "Yet shores there are, bless'd shores for us remain, And favour'd isles, with golden fruitage crown'd, Where tufted flowerets paint the verdant plain, Where every breeze shall med'cine every wound. 'There the stern tyrant that embitters life

Shall, vainly suppliant, spread his asking hand; There shall we view the billows' raging strife,

Aid the kind breast, and waft his boat to land.'

TAKING A VIEW OF THE COUNTRY FROM HIS RETIREMENT, HE IS LED TO MEDIATE ON THE CHARACTER OF THE ANCIENT BRITONS. WRITTEN AT THE TIME OF A RUMOURED TAX UPON LUXURY, 1746.

THUS Damon sung-' What though unknown to praise

Umbrageous coverts hide my Muse and me, Or mid the rural shepherds flow my days? Amid the rural shepherds I am free.

'To view sleek vassals crowd a stately hall, Say, should I grow myself a solemn slave? To find thy tints, O Titian! grace my wall, Forego the flowery fields my fortune gave ? 'Lord of my time, my devious path I bend Through fringy woodland or smooth-shaven lawn, Or pensile grove or airy cliff ascend,

And hail the scene by Nature's pencil drawn. Thanks be to Fate-though nor the racy vine, Nor fattening olive clothe the fields I rove, Sequester'd shades and gurgling founts are mine, And every silvan grot the Muses love.

Here if my vista point the mouldering pile, Where hood and cowl Devotion's aspect wore, I trace the tottering reliques with a smile, To think the mental bondage is no more.

'Pleas'd if the glowing landscape wave with corn, Or the tall oaks, my country's bulwark, rise ; Pleas'd if mine eye, o'er thousand vallies borne, Discern the Cambrian hills support the skies.