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The tuneful names themselves once fondly gave
To every swelling hill, and mosfy cave,
So pleasing then, are only heard with sighs ;
And each fad echo bids their forrow rise.
Yet Nature smiles, as when their Virgil fung,
Nor 'midst a fairer scene his lyre was ftrung ;
Still bloom the sweets of his elysium here,
And the same charms in every grove appear.
But ah! in vain indulgent suns prevail ;
Health and delight in every balmy gale
Are wafted now in vain : small comfort bring
To weeping eyes the beauties of the spring.
To groaning Naves those fragrant meads belong,
Where Tully dictated, and Maro sung.
Long since, alas ! those golden days are flown,
Where here each Science wore its proper crown ;
Pale Tyranny had laid their altars low,
And rent the laurel from the Muse's brow :
What wonder then 'midst such a scene to see
The Arts expire with bleeding Liberty ?
Pensive and fad, each fair angelic form
Droops, like the wearied dove beneath a storm:
Far other views the poet's thought engage,
Than the warm glories of th’ Augustan age.
Can mis’ry bid th’imagination glow?
Or genius brighten ʼmidft domestic woe?
To see defponding wretches round him pine,
Horace had wept beneath the Alban vine.
Sad sits the bard amidft his country's tears,
And fighs, regardless of the wreaths he wears.
Did ever Want and Famine sweetly fing?
The fetter'd hand uncouthly strikes the string.
Lo! stern Oppression lifts her iron rod,
And Ruin waits th’imperious harpy's nod :
Black Desolation, and destructive War,
Rise at the signal, and attend her car.
From the dire pomp th' affrighted shepherd flies,
And leaves his flock the rav'nous soldier's prize.
Where now are all the nymphs that bleft the plains ?
Where the full chorus of contented swains ?
The songs of love, of liberty and peace,
Are heard no more; the dance and tabor ceafe:
To the soft oaten pipe, and pastral reed,
The din of arms, and clarion's blaft succeed :
Dire shapes appear in every op’ning glade ;
And Furies howl where once the Muses stray'd ?
Is this the queen of realms, for arts renown'd?
This captive maid, that weeps upon the ground!
Alas ! how chang'd! – dejected and forlorn !
The mistress of the world become the scorn!
Around stand Rapine, Horror and Despair ;
And Ign’rance, dark ally of barb'rous War:
She, at th' usurping Vandal's dread command,
Displays her gloomy banner o'er the land :
Beneath its chilling shade neglected lies
Each sister Art; and unlamented dies.
Lo! Sculpture lets her useless chiffel fall;
While on some ruin'd temple's broken wall
Sad Architecture sits; and sees with shame
Mif-shapen piles usurp her injur'd name :
Music and Verse, unhappy twins ! belong
To antique Masque, and weak unmanly Song:
The gath'ring deluge swells on every side,
And monkish Superstition swells the tide.
By the resiftless torrent overborn
Floats every Virtue, from its basis torn :
Fair Learning droops, the sick’ning Arts decay;
And every laurel fades, and every bay.
All is confus’d, no traces now are seen
To shew what wretched Italy has been.
Thus once Vesuvius, crown'd with circling wood, Parthenope, thy beauteous neighbour stood :
Perpetual Spring cloath'd the fair mountain's side ;
And what is now thy terror, was thy pride.
Sudden th' imprison’d flames burst forth ; and laid
On smoaky heaps each shrieking Dryad's shade :
Now deep in ashes sinks the myrtle bow'r,
O'er beds of Aow'rs fulphureous torrents roar;
And exild demi-gods their ruin'd seats deplore.
The L I NK. A B A L L A D.
E ladies that live in the city or town,
Fair Winton or Alresford fo fine and so gay ;
And ye neat country lasses in clean linen gown,
As neat and as blithe and as pretty as they :
Come away ftrait to Ovington, for you can't think
What a charming new walk there is made on the Link.
Look how lovely the prospect, the meadows how green,
The fields and the woods, in the vale or the hill :
The trees, and the cottage that peeps out between,
The clear stream that runs bubbling in many a rill,
That will show your fair face as you stand on the brink,
And murmurs most sweetly all under the Link.
· Vol. IV.
How pleasant the morning, how clear the blue sky,
How pure the fresh air, and how healthy the place!
Your heart goes a pit-a-pat light as a fly,
And the blood circles briskly, and glows in your face:
Would you paint your fair cheeks with the rose and the
Throw your washes away, take a walk on the Link.(pink ?
After dinner the 'squire ere the ladies retreat,
Marches off with some friends that will ply the brisk glass;
Gives us liquor enough, and a good pleasant seat,
And damns your fine taste, and your finical lass :
Al fresco, my lads, we'll carouse and we'll drink,
Take your bottle each man, and away to the Link.
Not so gentle Collin, whom love holds in thrall,
To Molly he steals all in silence away ;
And when nought can be heard but the rude water-fall,
And the woodbine breathes sweetest at close of the day,
He takes her soft hand, and he tips her the wink,
Come, my dear, let us take a cool walk on the Link.
But, О ye fair maidens, be sure have a care,
Nor lay yourselves open to love's cruel dart;
Of the hour and the place and the season beware,
And guard weil each passage that leads to your