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

To lord TEMPLE.

WHILE others loft to friendship, loft to love,

their best minutes on a foreign ftrand, Be mine, with British nymph or fwain to rove, And court the genius of my native land.

Deluded youth! that quits thefe verdant plains,
To catch the follies of an alien foil!

To win the vice his genuine foul disdains,
Return exultant, and import the spoil!

In vain he boafts of his detefted prize;

No more it blooms to British climes convey'd,
Cramp'd by the impulfe of ungenial skies,
See its fresh vigour, in a moment, fade!

Th' exotic foily knows its native clime;
An aukward stranger, if we waft it o'er;
Why then these toils, this coftly waste of time,
To fpread foft poifon on our happy shore?

I covet

I covet not the pride of foreign looms;

In fearch of foreign modes I scorn to rove; Nor, for the worthlefs bird of brighter plumes, Wou'd change the meanest warbler of my grove.

- No diftant clime fhall fervile airs impart,

Or form these limbs with pliant ease to play;
Trembling I view the GAUL's illufive art,
That steals my lov'd rufticity away.

'Tis long fince freedom fled th' Hefperian clime; Her citron groves, her flow'r-embroider'd fhore; She saw the British oak aspire fublime,

And foft CAMPANIA'S olive charms no more.

Let partial funs mature the western mine,
To fhed its luftre o'er th' Iberian maid;
Mien, beauty, shape, O native foil, are thine;
Thy peerless daughters afk no foreign aid.

Let* CEYLON'S envy'd plant perfume the feas,
Till torn to season the Batavian bowl;
Ours is the breaft whofe genuine ardours please,
Nor need a drug to meliorate the foul.

*The cinnamon.

Let

Or with rude lips th' Aonian fount profane; The muse no more by flow'ry LADON roves, She feeks her THOMSON, on the British plain.

Tell not of realms by ruthless war dismay'd;

As hapless realms that war's oppreffion feel! In vain may AUSTRIA boast her Noric blade, If AUSTRIA bleed beneath her boasted steel.

Beneath her palm IDUME vents her moan;

Raptur'd she once beheld its friendly fhade!
And hoary MEMPHIS boasts her tombs alone,
The mournful types of mighty pow'r decay'd!

No crefcent here displays its baneful horns;

No turban'd hoft the voice of truth reproves; Learning's free fource the fage's breast adorns, And poets, not inglorious, chaunt their loves.

Boast, favour'd MEDIA, boast thy flow'ry stores;
Thy thousand hues by chymic funs refin'd;
'Tis not the dress or mien my foul adores,

'Tis the rich beauties of BRITANNIA'S mind.

While GREENVILLE's breast cou'dvirtue's stores afford,
What envy'd flota bore fo fair a freight?
The mine compared in vain its latent hoard,
The gem its luftre, and the gold its weight.

• Written about the time of captain GREENVILLE's death.

VOL. I.

E

Thee

Thee GREENVILEE, thee with calmeft courage fraught,
Thee the lov'd image of thy native shore !
Thee by the virtues arm'd, the graces taught,
When fhall we cease to boaft, or to deplore?

Prefumptuous war, which could thy life destroy,
What fhall it now in recompence decree ?
While friends that merit every earthly joy,
Feel every anguifh; feel-the lofs of thee!

Bid me no more a fervile realm compare,

No more the mufe of partial praise arraign;
BRITANNIA fees no foreign breast so fair,
And if the glory, glories not in vain.

ELEGY

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In memory of a * private family in WORCESTERSHIRE.

ROM a lone tow'r with rev'rend ivy crown'd,

FRO

The pealing bell awak'd a tender figh; Still, as the village caught the waving found, A fwelling tear diftream'd from ev'ry eye.

So droop'd, I ween, each BRITON's breast of old, When the dull curfew spoke their freedom fled; For fighing as the mournful accent roll'd,

Our hope, they cry'd, our kind fupport, is dead!

'Twas good PALEMON-near a fhaded pool,

A groupe of ancient elms umbrageous rofe; The flocking rooks, by instinct's native rule, This peaceful scene, for their afylum, chose.

A few fmall fpires, to Gothic fancy fair,

Amid the shades emerging, ftruck the view; 'Twas here his youth refpir'd its earliest air; 'Twas here his age breath'd out its laft adieu.

* The penns of HARBOROUGH; a place whose name in the SAXON language, alludes 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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