See the poor native quit the Lybian shores, Nor love, nor fame, nor friendship heals his wound, Let vacant bards display their boastive woes, No, let the mufe his piercing pangs disclose, On the wild beach in mournful guise he stood, Yet the mufe liften'd to the plaints he made; But smooth'd, and fuited to the founding lyre. "Why am I ravish'd from my native strand? Here the dire locufts horrid fwarms prevail Here the dry dipfa writh his finuous mail; Can we not here, fecure from envy, dwell? When When the grim lion urg'd his cruel chace, When the stern panther fought his midnight prey, What fate referv'd me for this * chriftian race? O race more polifh'd, more fevere than they! Ye prouling wolves purfue my latest cries! O tear me from the whips and fcorns of men! Yet in their face fuperior beauty glows; Are fmiles the mien of rapine and of Of blissful haunts they tell, and brighter climes, Where gentle minds convey'd by death repair, But ftain'd with blood, and crimfon'd o'er with crimes, Say, fhall they merit what they paint so fair? No, careless, hopeless of those fertile plains, For them our tufky elephant expires; For them we drain the mine's embowel'd gold; Where rove the brutal nations wild defires ? Our limbs are purchas'd, and our life is fold! Spoke by a favage. Yet Yet fhores there are, blest shores for us remain, And favour'd ifles with golden fruitage crown' Where tufted flow'rets paint the verdant plain, Where ev'ry breeze shall med'cine ev'ry wound. There the stern tyrant that embitters life Shall, vainly fuppliant, fpread his asking hand; There shall we view the billow's raging strife, Aid the kind breast, and waft his boat to land." ELEGY Taking a view of the country from his retirement, he is led to meditate on the character of the ancient BRITONS. Written at the time of a rumoured tax upon 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, Lord of my time my devious path I bend, ? Thro' fringy woodland, or fmooth-shaven lawn ; Or penfile grove, or airy cliff afcend, And hail the scene by nature's pencil drawn. Thanks be to fate-tho' nor the racy vine, Here Here if my vifta point the mould'ring pile, 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, Discern the Cambrian hills fupport the skies. And fee PLINLIMMON! ev'n the youthful fight Bleak, joylefs regions! where, by fcience fir'd, Yet for those mountains, clad with lasting snow, Then if a chief perform'd a patriot's part, The rude majestic monument arose. Progreffive |