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Taking a view of the country from his retirement, he is led to meditate on the character of the ancient BRIWritten at the time of a rumoured tax upon

TONS.

luxury. 1746.

TH

Hus DAMON fung-What tho' unknown to praise Umbrageous coverts hide my muse and me; Or mid the rural fhepherds, flow my days,

Amid the rural fhepherds, I am free.

To view fleek vaffals crowd a stately hall,
Say fhould I grow myself a folemn slave?
To find thy tints, O TITIAN! grace my wall,
Forego the flow'ry fields my fortune gave?

Lord of my time my devious path I bend,
Thro' fringy woodland, or smooth-shaven lawn;
Or penfile grove, or airy cliff ascend,

And hail the scene by nature's pencil drawn.

Thanks be to fate-tho' nor the racy vine,
Nor fatt❜ning olive cloath the fields I rove,
Sequester'd shades, and gurgling founts are mine,
And ev'ry filvan grott the mufes love.

Here

Here if my vifta point the mould'ring pile,
Where hood and cowl devotion's afpect wore,
I trace the tott'ring reliques with a smile,
To think the mental bondage is no more!

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

And fee PLINLIMMON! ev'n the youthful fight
Scales the proud hill's etherial cliffs with pain!
Such CAER-CARADOC! thy ftupendous height,
Whofe ample shade obfcures th' Iernian main.

Bleak, joylefs regions! where, by science fir'd,
Some prying fage his lonely ftep may bend;
There, by the love of novel plants infpir'd,
Invidious view the clamb'ring goats afcend.

Yet for those mountains, clad with lafting fnow,
The freeborn BRITON left his greenest mead;
Receding fullen from his mightier foe,
For here he faw fair liberty recede.

Then if a chief perform'd a patriot's part,
Sustain❜d her drooping fons, repell'd her foes,

Above or Perfian luxe, or Attic art,

The rude majestic monument arose.

Progreffive

Progreffive ages carol'd forth his fame

Sires, to his praife, attun'd their children's tongue; The hoary druid fed the generous flame,

While, in fuch ftrains, the reverend wizard fung.

"Go forth, my fons !-for what is vital breath,
Your gods expell'd, your liberty refign'd?
Go forth, my fons !-for what is instant death
To fouls fecure perennial joys to find?

For scenes there are, unknown to war or pain, Where drops the balm that heals a tyrant's wound Where patriots, bleft with boundless freedom, reign, With misletoe's mysterious garlands crown'd.

Such are the names that grace your mystic fongs;
Your folemn woods refound their martial fire;
To you, my fons, the ritual meed belongs,
If in the cause you vanquish, or expire.

Hark! from the facred oak that crowns the groves
What aweful voice my raptur'd bofom warms!
This is the favour'd moment heav'n approves,
Sound the fhrill trump; this inftant, found, to arms.

Theirs was the science of a martial race,
To shape the lance, or decorate the shield;
Ev'n the fair virgin ftain'd her native grace,
To give new horrors to the tented field.

Now,

Now, for fome cheek where guilty blushes glow,
For fome false FLORIMEL'S impure disguise,
The lifted youth, nor war's loud fignal know,
Nor virtue's call, nor fame's imperial prize.

Then if foft concord lull'd their fears to fleep,
Inert and filent slept the manly car;
But rush'd horrific o'er the fearful steep,
If freedom's aweful clarion breath'd to war.

Now the fleek courtier, indolent and vain,
Thron'd in the fplend'd carriage glides fupine;

To taint his virtue with a foreign ftrain,
Or at a fav'rite's board, his faith refign.

Leave then, O luxury! this happy foil!
Chase her, BRITANNIA, to fome hostile shore!
Or* fleece the baneful pest with annual spoil,
And let thy virtuous offspring weep no more!

* Alludes to a tax upon luxury, then in debate.

ELEGY

ELEGY

Written in the year

XXII.

when the rights of fepulture

were fo frequently viclated.

SAY, gentle fleep, that lov't the gloom of night,

Parent of dreams! thou great magician, fay,

Whence my late vifion thus endures the light;
Thus haunts my fancy thro' the glare of day.

The filent moon had fcal'd the vaulted skies,
And anxious care refign'd my limbs to rest:
A fudden luftre struck my wond'ring eyes,
And SILVIA stood before my couch confeft.

Ah! not the nymph fo blooming and fo gay,
That led the dance beneath the festive shade!
But fhe that, in the morning of her day,

Intomb'd beneath the grafs-green fod was laid.

No more her eyes their wonted radiance caft;
No more her breast inspir'd the lover's flame,
No more her cheek the Pæftan rofe furpaft;
Yet feem'd her lip's etherial fmile the fame.

Nor fuch her hair as deck'd her living face;

Nor fuch her voice as charm'd the lift'ning crowd; Nor fuch her drefs as heighten'd ev'ry grace;

Alas! all vanifh'd for the mournful fhroud!

VOL. I.

G

Yet

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