Again with patrons and with friends she roves,
But friends and patrons never to return;
She sees the Nymphs, the Graces, and the Loves,
But sees them weeping o'er Lucinda's urn.
She visits, Isis! thy forsaken stream;

Oh! ill forsaken for Boeotian air;

She deems no flood reflects so bright a beam,
No reed so verdant, and no flowers so fair.
She deems beneath thy sacred shades were peace,
Thy bays might e'en the civil storm repel:
Reviews thy social bliss, thy learned ease,

And with no cheerful accent cries-Farewell!
Farewell, with whom to these retreats I stray'd,
By youthful sports, by youthful toils, allied;
Joyous we sojourn'd in thy circling shade,
And wept to find the paths of life divide.
She paints the progress of my rival's vow,
Sees every Muse a partial ear incline,
Binds with luxuriant bays his favour'd brow,
Nor yields the refuse of his wreath to mine.
She bids the flattering mirror, form'd to please,
Now blast my hope, now vindicate despair;
Bids my fond verse the love-sick parley cease,
Accuse my rigid fate, acquit my fair.

Where circling rocks defend some pathless vale,
Superfluous mortal! let me ever rove;
Alas! there echo will repeat the tale—

Where shall I find the silent scenes I love?
Fain would I mourn my luckless fate alone,
Forbid to please, yet fated to admire;
Away, my friends! my sorrows are my own;
Why should I breathe around my sick desire?

Bear me, ye winds! indulgent to my pains, Near some sad ruin's ghastly shade to dwell; There let me fondly eye the rude remains,

And from the mouldering refuse build my cell. Genius of Rome! thy prostrate pomp display, Trace every dismal proof of Fortune's power; Let me the wreck of theatres survey,

Or pensive sit beneath some nodding tower. Or where some duct, by rolling seasons worn, Convey'd pure streams to Rome's imperial wall; Near the wide breach in silence let me mourn, Or tune my dirges to the water's fall. Genius of Carthage! paint thy ruin'd pride; Towers, arches, fanes, in wild confusion strown; Let banish'd Marius', louring by thy side, Compare thy fickle fortunes with his own. Ah no! thou monarch of the storms! forbear; My trembling nerves abhor thy rude control, And scarce a pleasing twilight sooths my care, Ere one vast death-like darkness shocks my soul. Forbear thy rage—on no perennial base

Is built frail Fear, or Hope's deceitful pile; My pains are fled-my joy resumes its place, Should the sky brighten, or Melissa smile.

14 Inopemque vitam in tugurio ruinarum Carthaginensium toleravit, cum Marius inspiciens Carthaginem, illa intuens Marium, alter alteri possent esse solatio.' Liv.

EXPLANATION.

Marius endured a life of poverty under shelter of the Carthaginian ruins; and while he contemplated Carthage, and Carthage beheld him, they might be said mutually to resemble and account for each other.

HE REPEATS THE SONG OF COLIN,

A DISCERNING SHEPHERD LAMENTING THE STATE OF THE WOOLLEN MANUFACTORY.

And

Ergo omni studio glaciem ventosque nivales,
Quo minus est illis curæ mortalis egestas,
Avertes: victumque feres.

Thou, therefore, in proportion to their lack
Of human aid, with all thy care defend
From frozen seasons and inclement blasts,
And give them timely food.

VIRG.

NEAR Avon's bank, on Arden's flowery plain,
A tuneful shepherd' charm'd the listening wave,
sunny Cotsol' fondly loved the strain,
Yet not a garland crowns the shepherd's grave!
Oh! lost Ophelia! smoothly 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,
I steal the musk-rose from the scented brake,
I strew my cowslips, and I pay my tear,

I'll add the myrtle for Ophelia's sake.

Shivering beneath a leafless thorn he lay, [tongue:
When Death's chill rigour seized his flowing
The more I found his faltering notes decay,
The more prophetic truth sublimed the song.

1 Mr. Somervile.

'Adieu, my flocks! (he said) my wonted care,
By sunny mountain or by verdant shore ;
May some more happy hand your fold prepare,
And may you need your Colin's crook no more!
And you, ye shepherds! lead my gentle sheep;
To breezy hills or leafy shelters lead;
But if the sky with showers incessant weep,
Avoid the putrid moisture of the mead.
"Where the wild thyme perfumes the purpled heath,
Long loitering, there your fleecy tribes extend-
But what avails the maxims I bequeath?
The fruitless gift of an officious friend!

Ah! what avails the timorous lambs to guard, Though nightly cares with daily labours join, If foreign sloth obtain the rich reward,

If Gallia's craft the ponderous fleece purloin?
Was it for this, by constant vigils worn,
I met the terrors of an early grave?

For this I led them from the pointed thorn?
For this I bathed them in the lucid wave?
Ah heedless Albion! too benignly prone
Thy blood to lavish and thy wealth resign!
Shall every other virtue grace thy throne,
But quick-eyed Prudence never yet be thine?
From the fair natives of this peerless hill
Thou gavest the sheep that browse Iberian plains;
Their plaintive cries the faithless region fill,

Their fleece adorns an haughty foe's domains. Ill-fated flocks; from cliff to cliff they stray;

Far from their dams, their native guardians, far Where the soft shepherd, all the livelong day, Chants his proud mistress to his hoarse guitar.

But Albion's youth her native fleece despise ; Unmoved they hear the pining shepherd's moan; In silky folds each nervous limb disguise, Allured by every treasure but their own.

66

Oft have I hurried down the rocky steep, Anxious to see the wintry tempest drive; [sheep! Preserve, (said I,) preserve your fleece, my Ere long will Phillis, will my love, arrive."

'Ere long she came : ah, woe is me! she came,

Robed in the Gallic loom's extraneous twine; For gifts like these they give their spotless fame, Resign their bloom, their innocence resign. Will no bright maid, by worth, by titles known, Give the rich growth of British hills to fame? And let her charms, and her example, own

That Virtue's dress and Beauty's are the same? Will no famed chief support this generous maid? Once more the patriot's arduous path resume? And, comely from his native plains array'd,

Speak future glory to the British loom? 'What power unseen my ravish'd fancy fires? I pierce the dreary shade of future days? Sure 'tis the Genius of the land inspires, To breathe my latest breath in ****; 's praise. 'O might my breath for * * *'s praise suffice, How gently should my dying limbs repose! O might his future glory bless mine eyes, My ravish'd eyes! how calmly would they close! was born to spread the general joy; By virtue rapt, by party uncontroll'd; Britons for Britain shall the crook employ ; Britons for Britain's glory shear the fold.'

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