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Where by remorse impell'd, repuls'd by fears,
Shall wretch'd fancy a retreat explore?

She flies the sad presage of coming years,

And sorr'wing dwells on pleasures now no more!

Again with patrons, and with friends she roves;
But friends and patrons never to return!

She sees the nymphs; the graces, and the loves,
But sees them, weeping o'er Lucinda's urn.

She visits, Is is! thy forsaken stream,

Oh ill forsaken for Bœotian air!
She deems no flood reflects so bright a beam,

No reed so verdant, and no flow'rs so fair.

She dreams beneath thy sacred shades where, peace^
Thy bays might ev'n the civil storm repel;

Reviews thy social bliss, thy learned ease,
And with no chearful accent cries, farewel!

Farewel, with whom to these retreats I stray'd!

By youthful sports, by youthful toils ally'd! Joyous we sojourn'd in thy circling shade,

And wept to find the paths of life divide.

She paints the progress of my rival's vow;

Sees ev'ry muse a partial ear incline; Binds with luxuriant bays his favour'd brow,

Nor yields the refuse of his wreath to mine.

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Where circling rocks defend some pathlefs vale,

Superfluous mortal, let me ever rove!
Alas! there echo will repent the tale .

Where shall I find the silent fcenes I love ?

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Or where fome duct, by rohing feafons 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 strewn % r

Let banish'd * Marius, low'ring by thy fide,

Compare thy fickle fortunes with his own.

Ah no! thou monarch of the storms! forbear;
My trembling nerves abhor thy rude controul;

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,
Shou'd the sky brighten, or Melissa smile.

* Inopemque vitam in tugurio ruinarum Carthaginensium toseravit, cum Marius inspiciens Carthaginem, ilia intuens Marium, alter alteri poffent esse sosatio. Liv.

ELEGY

ELEGY XVIII.

He repeats the song of Collin, a discerning shepherd; lamenting the slate of the woollen manusatJury.

Ergo omni studio glaciem ventosque nivales,
Htyo minus est illis cur a mortalis egestas,
Avertes: viSumque feres. Virgil.

NEAR Avon's bank, on Arden's flow'ry plain,
A* tuneful shepherd charm'd the listening wave;
And funny 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 his 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 myrde for Ophelia's sake.

Shiv'ring beneath a leafless thorn he lay,

When death's chill rigour seiz'd his flowing tongue;

The more I found his fault'ring notes decay,
The more prophetic truth sublim'd the song.
Vol. I. F "Adieu

# Mr. SOMERVILLE.

"Adieu my flocks, 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 Collie'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-loit'ring there your fleecy tribes extend-
But what avail the maxims I bequeath?
The fruitless gift of an osficious friend!

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

If Gallia's craft the pond'rous fleece purloin I

Was it for this, by constant 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 heedless Abbion! too benignly prone
Thy blood to lavish, and thy wealth resign!

Shall ev'ry other virtue grace thy throne,
But quick-ey'd prudence never yet be thine?

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