Bear me, ye winds! indulgent to my pains,

Near some sad ruin's ghastly shade to dwell, There let me fondly eye the rude remains,

And from the mouldering refuse build my cell. Genius of Rome! thy prostrate pomp display,

Trace every dismal proof of Fortune's pow'r; Let me the wreck of theatres survey,

Or pensive sit beneath some nodding tow'r. Or where some duct, by rolling seasons worn,

Convey'd pure streams to Rome's imperial wall, Near the wide breach in silence let me mourn,

Or tune my dirges to the water's fall. Genius of Carthage! paint thy ruin’d pride;

Tow'rs, arches, fanes, in wild confusion strown; Let banish'd Marius ', louring by thy side,

Compare thy fickle fortunes with his own. Ah no! thou monarch of the storms! forbear;

My trembling nerves abhor thy rude control, And scarce a pleasing twilight soothes my care,

Ere one vast death-like darkness shocks my soul. Forbear thy rage-on no perennial base

Is built frail Fear, or Hope's deceitful pile; My pains are fled-my joy resumes its place,

Should the sky brighten, or Melissa smile.

1. Inopemque vitam in tugurio ruinarum Carthaginensium toleravit, cum Marins inspicieus Carthaginem, illa iutuens Marium, alter alteri possent esse solatio.' Liv.

EXPLANATION. Marius endured a life of poverty under shelter of the Carthaginian ruins; and while he contemplated Carthage, and Carthage beheld bin, they might be said mutually to reseinble and account for each other.




Ergo omni studio glaciem ventosque nivales,
Quo minus est illis curæ mortalis egestas,
Avertes : victumque feres.


Thou, therefore, in proportion to their lack
Of human aid, with all thy care defend
From frozen seasons and inclement blasts,
And give them timely food.

Near Avon's bank, on Arden's flowery plain,

A tupeful shepherd' charm’d the listening wave, And sunny Cotsol fondly lov'd the strain,

Yet not a garland crowns the shepherd's grave! Oh! lost Ophelia! smoothly flow'd the day

To feel his music with my flames agree, To taste the beauties of his melting lay,

To taste, and fancy it was dear to thee. When for bis tomb, with each revolving year,

I steal the musk-rose from the scented brake, I strew my cowslips, and I pay my tear,

I'll add the myrtle for Ophelia's sake. Shivering beneath a leafless thom he lay, (tongue;

When Death's chill rigour seiz'd his flowing The more I found his faltering potes decay,

The more prophetic truth sublim'd the song.

1 Mr. Somervile.

Adieu, my focks!' he said, my wonted care,

By sunny mountain or by verdant shore; May some more happy hand your fold prepare,

And may you need your Colin's crook no more! • And you, ye shepherds! lead my gentle sheep,

To breezy hills or leafy shelters lead;
But if the sky with show'rs incessant weep,

Avoid the putrid moisture of the mead. • Where the wild thyme perfumes the purpled heath,

Long loitering, there yonr fleecy tribes extend But what avails the maxims I bequeath?

The fruitless gift of an officious friend!
Ah! what avails the timorous lambs to guard, •

Though nightly cares with daily labours join,
If foreign sloth obtain the rich reward,

If Gallia's craft the ponderous fleece purloin? Was it for this, by constant vigils worn,

I met the terrors of an early grave?
For this I led 'em from the pointed thorn?

For this I bath'd 'em in the lucid wave?
Ah! heedless Albion! too benignly prone

Thy blood to lavish and thy wealth resign! Shall every other virtue grace thy throne,

But quick-ey'd Prudence never yet be thine? From the fair natives of this peerless hill

Thou gav'st the sheep that browze Iberian plains; Their plaintive cries the faithless region fill,

Their fleece adorns an haughty foe's domains. • Ill-fated flocks; from cliff to cliff they stray;

Far from their dams, their native guardians, far! Where the soft shepherd, all the livelong day,

Chants his proud mistress to his hoarse guitar.

• But Albion's youth her native fleece despise;

Unmov'd they hear the pining shepherd's moan; In silky folds each nervous limb disguise,

Allur'd by every treasure but their own.
Oft have I hurried down the rocky steep,

Anxious to see the wintry tempest drive; [Sheep! “ Preserve,” said I, “ preserve your fleece, my

Ere long will Phillis, will my love, arrive." Ere long she came: ah, woe is me! she came, · Rob'd in the Gallic loom's extraneous twine; For gifts like these they give their spotless fame,

Resign their bloom, their innocence resign. • Will no bright maid, by worth, by titles known,

Give the rich growth of British bills to fame? And let her charms, and her example, own

That Virtue's dress and Beauty's are the same? « Will no fam'd chief support this generous maid?

Once more the patriot's arduous path resume? And, comely from his native plains array'd,

Speak future glory to the British loom? • What pow'r unseen my ravislı'd fancy fires?

I pierce the dreary shade of future days; Sure, 'tis the Genius of the land inspires,

To breathe my latest breath in * * praise. O might my breath for *,* praise suffice,

How gently should my dying limbs repose! O might his future glory bless mine eyes,

My ravish'd eyes! how calmly would they close! «** was born to spread the general joy;

By virtue rapt, by party uncontrollid; Britons for Britain shall the crook employ;

Britons for Britain's glory shear the fold.'


Again the labouring hind inverts the soil ;

Again the merchant ploughs the tumid wave; Another spring renews the soldier's toil,

And finds me vacant in the rural cave. As the soft lyre display'd my wontod loves,

The pensive pleasure and the tender pain, The sordid Alpheus hurried through my groves,

Yet stopp'd to vent the dictates of disdain. He glanc'd contemptuous o'er my ruin'd fold ;

He blam'd the graces of my favourite bow'r ; My breast, unsullied by the lust of gold;

My time, unlavish'd in pursuit of pow'r. Yes, Alpheus! fly the purer paths of Fate;

Abjure these scenes, from venal passions free; Know in this grove I vow'd perpetual hate,

War, endless war, with lucre and with thee. Here, nobly zealous, in my youthful hours

I dress'd an altar to Thalia's name; Here, as I crown'd the verdant shrine with flow'rs,

Soft on my labours stole the smiling dame. · Damon,' she cried, “if, pleasd with honest praise,

Thou court success by virtue or by song, Fly the false dictates of the venal race,

Fly the gross accents of the venal tongue. Swear that no lucre shall thy zeal betray;

Swerve not thy foot with Fortune's votaries more; Brand thou their lives, and brand their lifeless day

The winning phantom urg?d me, and I swore.

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