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E L EGY XIV.

Declining an invitation to visit foreign countries, be takes occafion to intimate the advantages of his own.

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Deluded youth! that quits these verdant plains,

To catch the follies of an alien foil !
To win the vice Iris genuine foul disdains,

Return exultant, and import the fpoil !

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I covet not the pride of foreign looms *,
In search of foreign modes I scorn to rove;

Nor, for the worthless bird of brighter plumes,
Wou'd change the meanest warbler of my grove.

No distant clime shall servile airs impart.

Or form these limbs with pliant ease to play;

Trembling I view the Gaul's illusive art,
That steals my lov'd rusticity away.

'Tis long since freedom fled th' Hesperian clime;

Her citron groves, her flow'r-embroider'd shore; She saw the British oak aspire sublime,

And soft Campania's olive charms no more.

Let partial suns mature the western mine,
To shed its lustre o'er th' Iberian maid 5

Mien, beauty, shape, O native soil, are thine;
Thy peerless daughters ask no foreign aid.

Let * Ceylon's envy'd plant perfume the seas,
Till torn to season the Batavian bowl; ;>

Ours is the breast whose genuine ardours please*
Nor need a drug to meliorate the soul.

* The cinnamon.

Let

Let the proud Soldan wound th' Arcadian groves,
Or with rude lips th' Aonian fount profane •>

The muse no more by flow'ry Ladon roves,
She seeks her Thomson, on the British plain,

Tell not of realms by ruthless war dismay'd;

As hapless realms that war's oppression feel! In vain may Austria boast herNoric blade,

If Austria bleed beneath her boasted steel.

Beneath her palm Idume vents her moan;
Raptur'd she once beheld its friendly shade!

And hoary Memphis boasts her tombs alone,
The mournful types of mighty pow'r decay'd!

No crescent here displays its baneful horns;

No turban'd host the voice of truth reproves; Learning's free source the sage's breast adorns,

And poets, not inglorious, chaunt their loves,

Boast, favour'd Media, boast thy flow'ry stores;
Thy thousand hues by chymic suns refin'd;

'Tis not the dress or mien my soul adores,
'Tis the rich beauties of Britannia's mind,

While*G Re En v i L Le's breast cou'd virtue's stores asford,

What envy'd flota bore so fair a freight? The mine compared in vain its latent hoard,

The gem its lustre, and the gold its weight.

* Written about the time of captain Greenville's death.

Vol, I. E Thee

ThceGREENviLLE, thecwith calmest courage fraught,
Thee the lov'd image of thy native shore!

Thee by the virtues arm'd, the graces taught,
When shall we cease to boast, or to deplore?

Presumptuous war, which couid thy life destroy,
What shall it now inrecompence decree?

While friends that merit every earthly joy,
Feel every anguish; feel—the loss of thee t

Bid me no more a servile realm compare,
No more the muse of partial praise arraign\

Britannia sees no foreign breast so fair,
And if she glory, glories not in vain*

ELEGY ELEGY XV.

In memory of a * private family in Worcestershire.

FROM a lone tow'r with rev'rend ivy crown'd,
The pealing bell awak'd a tender sigh;
Still, as the village caught the waving sound,
A swelling tear distream'd from ev'ry eye.

So droop'd, I ween, each Briton's breast of old,
When the dull curfew spoke their freedom fled j

For sighing as the mournful accent rolPd,
Our hope, they cry'd, our kind support, is dead!

'Twas good Palemon—near a shaded pool,
A groupe of ancient elms umbrageous rose;

The flocking rooks, by instinct's native rule,
This peaceful scene, for their asylum, chose.

A few small spires, to Gothic fancy fair,
Amid the shades emerging, struck the view;

'Twas'here his youth respir'd its earliest air
'Twas here his age breath'd out its last adieu.

* The penns. of Harborouch; a psace whose name in tha Saxon sanguage, assudes to an arm. And there is a tradition that there was a battle fought, on the Downs adjoining, betwixt the Britons and the Romans.

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