Genius of CARTHAGE! paint thy ruin'd pride; Tow'rs, arches, fanes in wild confusion strewn ; Let banish'd * MARIUS, low'ring by thy fide, Compare thy fickle fortunes with his own.

Ah no! thou monarch of, the ftorms! forbear;
My trembling nerves abhor thy rude controul;
And scarce a pleafing twilight foothes my care,
Ere one vast death like darkness shocks my foul.

Forbear thy rage-on no perennial base

Is built frail fear, or hope's deceitful pile; My pains are fled-my joy refumes its place, Shou'd the sky brighten, or MELISSA smile,

Inopemque vitam in tugurio ruinarum Carthaginenfium toleravit, cum Marius infpiciens Carthaginem, illa intuens Marium, alter alteri poffent effe folatio. LIV.

ELEGY

EL EGY XVIII.

He repeats the Song of COLLIN, a discerning shepherd; lamenting the ftate of the woollen manufactury.

Ergo omni ftudio glaciem ventofque nivales,
Quo minus eft illis curæ mortalis egeftas,

Avertes: victumque feres.

VIRGIL.

EAR AVON's bank, on ARDEN's flow'ry plain,

NEA

A* tuneful shepherd charm'd the lift'ning wave; And funny COTSOL' fondly lov'd the strain ;

Yet not a garland crowns the fhepherd's grave!

Oh loft OPHELIA! fmoothly flow'd the day,
To feel his music with my flames agree!
To taste the beauties of his melting lay,
To tafte, and fancy it was dear to thee!

When, for his tomb, with each revolving year,
I steal the mufk-rofe from the fcented brake,
I ftrew my cowflips, and I pay my tear,
I'll add the myrtle for OPHELIA's fake.

Shiv'ring beneath a leafless thorn he lay,

When death's chill rigour feiz'd his flowing tongue; The more I found his fault'ring notes decay,

The more prophetic truth fublim'd the fong.

VOL. I.

F

* Mr. SOMERVILLE.

"Adieu

1

"Adieu my flocks, he faid! my wonted care, By funny mountain, or by verdant fhore! May fome more happy hand your fold prepare,

And may you need your COLLIN's crook no more.

And you, ye fhepherds! lead my gentle sheep;
To breezy hills, or leafy fhelters lead;
But if the fky with fhow'rs inceffant weep,
Avoid the putrid moisture of the mead.

Where the wild thyme perfumes the purpled heath,
Long-loit'ring there your fleecy tribes extend-
But what avail the maxims I bequeath?
The fruitless gift of an officious friend !

Ah! what avails the tim'rous lambs to guard,
Tho' nightly cares, with daily labours, join?
If foreign floth obtain the rich reward,

If GALLIA's craft the pond'rous fleece purloin!

Was it for this, by conftant vigils worn,
I met the terrors of an early grave?

For this, I led them from the pointed thorn ?
For this I bath'd 'em in the lucid wave?

Ah heedlefs ALBION ! too benignly prone
Thy blood to lavish, and thy wealth refign!
Shall ev'ry other virtue grace thy throne,
But quick-ey'd prudence never yet be thine?

From

From the fair natives of this peerless hill

Thou gav'ft the sheep that browze Iberian plaiņs : Their plaintive cries the faithlefs 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, Chaunts his proud miftrefs to his hoarfe guittar.

But ALBION's youth her native fleece defpife;
Unmov'd they hear the pining fhepherd's moan;
In filky folds each nervous limb disguise,
Allur'd by ev'ry treasure, but their own.

Oft have I hurry'd down the rocky steep,
Anxious, to see the wintry tempeft drive;
Preferve, faid I, preferve your fleece, my fheep!
Ere long will PHILLIS, will my love arrive.

Ere long the came: ah! woe is me, fhe came!
Rob'd in the Gallic loom's extraneous twine:
For gifts like these they give their fspotlefs fame,
Resign their bloom, their innocence resign.

Will no bright maid, by worth, by titles known,
Give the rich growth of British hills to fame?
And let her charms, and her example, own
That virtue's drefs, and beauty's are the fame ?
Will

F 2

Will no fam'd chief fupport this gen'rous 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 unfeen my ravish'd fancy fires?
I pierce the dreary fhade 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 fhou'd my dying limbs repose!
O might his future glory blefs mine eyes,

My ravish'd eyes! how calmly wou'd they clofe!

was born to spread the genʼral joy;
By virtue rapt, by party uncontroul'd;
BRITONS for BRITAIN fhall the crook employ;
BRITONS for BRITAIN'S glory fhear the fold."

ELEGY