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Where by remorfe impell'd, repuls'd by fears,
Shall wretch'd fancy a retreat explore?
She flies the fad prefage of coming years,

And forr'wing dwells on pleasures now no more!

Again with patrons, and with friends she roves;
But friends and patrons never to return!
She fees the nymphs; the graces, and the loves,
But fees them, weeping o'er LuCINDA'S urn.

She vifits, Isis! thy forfaken ftream,
Oh ill forfaken for Boeotian air!

She deems no flood reflects fo bright a beam,
No reed fo verdant, and no flow'rs fo fair.

She dreams beneath thy facred fhades where, peace, Thy bays might ev'n the civil ftorm repel; Reviews thy focial blifs, 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 fojourn'd in thy circling fhade,
And wept to find the paths of life divide.

She paints the progrefs of my rival's vow;
Sees ev'ry mufe a partial ear incline;
Binds with luxuriant bays his favour'd brow,

Nor yields the refufe of his wreath to mine.

She

Now blast my hope, now vindicate defpair; Bids my fond verse the love-fick parley cease; Accuse my rigid fate, acquit my fair.

Where circling rocks defend fome pathless vale,
Superfluous mortal, let me ever rove!

Alas! there echo will repent the tale

Where fhall I find the filent scenes I love?

Fain would I mourn my luckless fate alone;
Forbid to please, yet fated to admire;

Away my

friends! my forrows are my own; Why should I breathe around my fick defire?

Bear me ye winds, indulgent to my pains,
Near fome fad ruin's ghaftly shade to dwell!
There let me fondly eye the rude remains,

And from the mould'ring refuse, build my cell!

Genius of ROME! thy proftrate pomp display;
Trace ev'ry difmal proof of fortune's power;
Let me the wreck of theatres furvey,

Or penfive fit beneath fome nodding tow'r.

Or where some duct, by rolling seasons worn,
Convey'd pure streams to ROME's imperial wall,
Near the wide breach in filence let me mourn;

Or tune my dirges to the water's fall.

Genius

Genius of CARTHAGE! paint thy ruin'd pride; Tow'rs, arches, fanes in wild confufion ftrewn; 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 fmile.

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

L

ELEGY

ELE GY XVIII.

He repeats the fong of COLLIN, a difcerning shepherd; lamenting the state of the woollen manufaktury.

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

Avertes: viltumque feres.

VIRGIL.

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

NEA

A* tuneful fhepherd 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 taste, and fancy it was dear to thee!

When, for his tomb, with each revolving year,
Í steal the mufk-rofe from the scented 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

"Adieu

Mr. SOMERVILLE.

"Adieu my flocks, he faid! my wonted care,
By funny mountain, or by verdant shore !
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 extendBut what avail the maxims I bequeath?

The fruitless gift of an officious friend!

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

From

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