Yes, from the gods, from earliest Saturn, sprung Oft, when a mortal vow profanes my ear, Have you not heard unwonted thunders roll! Have you not seen more horrid light'nings glare! 'Twas then a vulgar love enfnar'd my foul; 'Twas then-I hardly fcap'd the fatal fnare. 'Twas then a peafant pour'd his amorous vow, But oh! I faint! why waftes my vernal bloom, When last I flept, methought, my ravifh'd eye, O how this bofom kindled at the fight! Led by their beams I urg'd the pleasing chace; Till, on a fudden, these with-held their light— All, all things envy the fublime embrace. But now no more-behind the distant grove, Wanders my deftin'd youth, and chides my ftay; See, fee, he grafps the fteel-forbear, my loveIANTHE Comes; thy princefs haftes away." Scornful she spoke, and heedlefs of reply Ah me! the victim of her proud disdain! ELEGY ELE GY XVII. He indulges the fuggeftions of Spleen: an elegy to the winds. Eole, namque tibi divum pater atque bominum rex TERN monarch of the winds, admit my pray'r! STE Awhile thy fury check, thy ftorms confine! No trivial blaft impells the paffive air, But brews a tempeft in a breast like mine. What bands of black ideas fpread their wings! I know their leader, fpleen; and dread the fway Thro' one my bloffoms and my fruits decay; Like fome pale ftripling, when his icy way Where Where by remorfe impell'd, repuls'd by fears, And forr'wing dwells on pleasures now no more! Again with patrons, and with friends she roves; She vifits, Isis! thy forsaken stream, She deems no flood reflects fo bright a beam, 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! She paints the progrefs of my rival's vow; Nor yields the refufe of his wreath to mine. She She bids the flatt'ring mirror, form'd to please, Where circling rocks defend some pathless vale, Alas! there echo will repent the tale Where shall I find the filent scenes I love? Fain would I mourn my luckless fate alone; Bear me ye winds, indulgent to my pains, And from the mould'ring refufe, build my cell! Genius of ROME! thy proftrate pomp display; Or pensive fit beneath some nodding tow'r. Or where fome duct, by rolling feasons worn, Or tune my dirges to the water's fall. |