The tuneful names themselves once fondly gave
To every fwelling hill, and moffy cave,
So pleafing then, are only heard with fighs;
And each fad echo bids their forrow rife.
Yet Nature smiles, as when their Virgil fung,
Nor 'midst a fairer scene his lyre was ftrung;
Still bloom the fweets of his elysium here,
And the fame charms in every grove appear.
But ah! in vain indulgent funs 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 flaves thofe fragrant meads belong,
Where Tully dictated, and Maro fung.
Long fince, alas! thofe 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 Mufe's brow:
What wonder then 'midft such a scene to fee
The Arts expire with bleeding Liberty?
Penfive 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 'midft domestic woe?
To fee defponding wretches round him pine,
Horace had wept beneath the Alban vine.
Sad fits the bard amidst his country's tears,
And fighs, regardless of the wreaths he wears.
Did ever Want and Famine fweetly fing?
The fetter'd hand uncouthly strikes the string.
Lo! ftern Oppreffion lifts her iron rod,
And Ruin waits th' imperious harpy's nod :
Black Defolation, and deftructive War,
Rife at the fignal, and attend her car.
From the dire pomp th' affrighted fhepherd flies,
And leaves his flock the rav'nous foldier's prize.
Where now are all the nymphs that bleft the plains?
Where the full chorus of contented fwains?
The fongs of love, of liberty and peace,
Are heard no more; the dance and tabor ceafe:
To the foft oaten pipe, and past'ral reed,
The din of arms, and clarion's blaft fucceed:
Dire shapes appear in every op'ning glade;
And Furies howl where once the Mufes ftray'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 fcorn!
Around stand Rapine, Horror and Despair;
And Ign'rance, dark ally of barb'rous War:
She, at th' ufurping Vandal's dread command,
Difplays her gloomy banner o'er the land :
Beneath its chilling fhade neglected lies
Each fifter Art; and unlamented dies.
Lo! Sculpture lets her useless chiffel fall;
While on fome ruin'd temple's broken wall
Sad Architecture fits; and fees with fhame
Mif-shapen piles ufurp her injur'd name :
Mufic and Verfe, unhappy twins! belong
To antique Mafque, and weak unmanly Song:
The gath'ring deluge fwells on every fide,
And monkish Superftition fwells the tide.
By the refiftless torrent overborn
Floats every Virtue, from its basis torn :
Fair Learning droops, the fick'ning Arts decay;
And every laurel fades, and every bay.
All is confus'd, no traces now are seen
To fhew what wretched Italy has been.
Thus once Vefuvius, crown'd with circling wood, Parthenope, thy beauteous neighbour stood:
Perpetual Spring cloath'd the fair mountain's fide;
And what is now thy terror, was thy pride.
Sudden th' imprison'd flames burst forth; and laid
On fmoaky heaps each fhrieking Dryad's fhade:
Now deep in ashes finks the myrtle bow'r,
O'er beds of flow'rs fulphureous torrents roar;
And exil'd demi-gods their ruin'd feats deplore.
E ladies that live in the city or town,
Fair Winton or Alresford fo fine and fo gay; And ye neat country laffes 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 profpect, 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.
How pleasant the morning, how clear the blue sky,
the fresh air, and how healthy the place!
Your heart goes a pit-a-pat light as a fly,
And the blood circles brifkly, and glows in your face: Would you paint your fair cheeks with the rofe and the Throw your washes away, take a walk on the Link. (pink?
After dinner the 'fquire ere the ladies retreat,
Marches off with fome friends that will ply the brifk glafs;
Gives us liquor enough, and a good pleafant feat,
And damns your fine tafte, and your finical lafs :
Al fresco, my lads, we'll carouse and we'll drink,
Take your bottle each man, and away to the Link.
Not fo gentle Collin, whom love holds in thrall,
To Molly he steals all in filence 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, O ye fair maidens, be fure have a care,
Nor lay yourselves open to love's cruel dart;
Of the hour and the place and the season beware,
And guard well each paffage that leads to your heart;
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