These roads that yet the Roman hand affert, Beyond the weak repair of modern toil; These fractur'd arches, that the chiding stream No more delighted hear; thefe rich remains Of marbles now unknown, where shines imbib'd Each parent ray; thefe maffy columns, hew'd From Afric's farthest shore; one granite all, These obelisks high-towering to the sky. Mysterious mark'd with dark Egyptian lore; Thefe endless wonders that this facred way Illumine ftill, and confecrate to fame;
These fountains, vafes, urns, and statues, charg'd With the fine ftores of art-compleating Greece. Mine is, befides, thy every later boast: Thy Buonarotis, thy Palladios mine ;
And mine the fair defigns, which Raphael's foul O'er the live canvass, emanating, breath'd.
What would you fay, ye conquerors of earth! Ye Romans! could you raife the laurel'd head; Could you the country fee, by feas of blood, And the dread toil of ages, won fo dear; Your pride, your triumph, and fupreme delight! For whofe defence oft, in the doubtful hour, You rush'd with rapture down the gulph of fate, Of death ambitious! till by aweful deeds, Virtues, and courage, that amaze mankind, The queen of nations rofe; poffeft of all Which nature, art, and glory could bestow: What would you fay, deep in the last abyss Of flavery, vice, and unambitious want,
Thus to behold her funk? Your crowded plains, Void of their cities; unadorn'd your hills;
Ungrac'd your lakes; your ports to ships unknown; Your lawless floods, and your abandon'd streams: These could you know? these could you love again? Thy Tibur, Horace, could it now inspire, Content, poetic ease, and rural joy,
Soon bursting into fong; while through the groves 270 Of headlong Anio, dashing to the vale,
In many a tortur'd stream, you mus'd along? Yon wild retreat, where fuperftition dreams, Could, Tully, you your Tufculum believe?
And could you deem yon naked hills, that form, 275 Fam'd in old fong, the fhip-forfaken bay, Your Formian fhore? Once the delight of earth, Where art and nature, ever-finiling, join'd
On the gay land to lavish all their stores.
How chang'd, how vacant, Virgil, wide around, 280 Would now your Naples feem? Difafter'd lefs By black Vefuvius thundering o'er the coast, His midnight earthquakes, and his mining fires, Than by defpotic rage: that inward gnaws, A native foe: a foreign, tears without. Firft from your flatter'd Cæfars this began Till, doom'd to tyrants an eternal prey, Thin-peopled fpreads, at laft, the fyren plain, That the dire foul of Hannibal difarm'd; And wrapt in weeds the fhore of Venus lies. There Baix fees no more the joyous throng; Her bank all beaming with the pride of Rome :
No generous vines now bask along the hills, Where sport the breezes of the Tyrrhene main : With baths and temples mix'd, no villas rife; Nor, art-fuftain'd amid reluctant waves, Draw the cool murmurs of the breathing deep: No fpreading ports their facred arms extend : No mighty moles the big intrusive storm, From the calm station, roll resounding back. An almoft total defolation fits,
A dreary ftillnefs, faddening o'er the coaft; Where, when foft funs and tepid winters rofe, Rejoicing crowds inhal'd the balm of peace; Where city'd hill to hill reflected blaze;
And where, with Ceres, Bacchus wont to hold A genial ftrife. Her youthful form, robust, Ev'n nature yields; by fire and earthquake rent: Whofe ftately cities in the dark abrupt Swallow'd at once, or vile in rubbish laid, A neft for ferpents; from the red abyfs New hills, explofive, thrown; the Lucrine lake A reedy pool; and all to Cuma's point, The fea recovering his ufurp'd domain,
And pour'd triumphant o'er the bury'd dome.
Hence, Britain, learn; my best-establish'd, last, And more than Greece, or Rome, my fteady reign; The land where, king and people equal bound By guardian laws, my fulleft bleffings flow; And where my jealous unfubmitting foul, The dread of tyrants! burns in every breast: Learn hence, if fuch the miferable fate
Of an heroic race, the masters once
Of human-kind; what, when depriv'd of Me, How grievous must be thine? In fpite of climes, Whofe fun-enliven'd æther wakes the foul To higher powers; in spite of happy soils, That, but by labour's flightest aid impell'd, With treasures teem to thy cold clime unknown; If there defponding fail the common arts, And fuftenance of life: could life itself, Far lefs a thoughtlefs tyrant's hollow pomp, Subfift with thee? Against depreffing skies, Join'd to full-fpread Oppreffion's cloudy brow, How could thy fpirits hold? where vigour find, Forc'd fruits to tear from their unnative foil? Or, ftoring every harvest in thy ports, To plough the dreadful all-producing wave? Here paus'd the Goddefs. By the pause affur'd, In trembling accents thus I mov'd my prayer. 66 Oh, first, and most benevolent of powers! "Come from eternal fplendors, here on earth, Against defpotic pride, and rage, and luft, "To fhield mankind; to raise them to affert "The native rights and honour of their race : "Teach me thy lowest fubject, but in zeal
Yielding to none, the Progrefs of thy Reign, "And with a ftrain from Thee enrich the Mufe. "As Thee alone fhe ferves, her patron, Thou, "And great inspirer be! then will she joy, "Through narrow life her lot, and private shade: "And when her venal voice the barters vile,
"Or to thy open or thy fecret foes:
"May ne'er those sacred raptures touch her more, "By flavish hearts unfelt! and may her fong "Sink in oblivion with the nameless crew! "Vermin of state! to thy o'erflowing light
"That owe their being, yet betray thy cause." Then, condescending kind, the Heavenly Power Return'd." What here, fuggefted by the scene, 360 "I flight unfold, record and fing at home, “In that best isle, where (so we spirits move) "With one quick effort of my will I am. "There Truth, unlicens'd, walks; and dares accoft "Ev'n kings themfelves, the monarchs of the free! "Fix'd on my rock, there, an indulgent race` "O'er Britons wield the fceptre of their choice: "And there, to finish what his fires began, "A Prince behold! for Me who burns fincere, "Ey'n with a fubject's zeal. He my great work 370 "Will parent-like sustain; and added give "The touch, the Graces and the Muses owe. "For Britain's glory fwells his panting breast; "And ancient arts he emulous revolves: "His pride to let the fmiling heart abroad;
"Through clouds of pomp, that but conceal the man; "To please his pleafure; bounty his delight; "And all the foul of Titus dwells in him."
Hail, glorious theme! but how, alas! shall verse, From the crude ftores of mortal language drawn, 380 Haw faint and tedious, fing, what, piercing deep, The Goddess flash'd at once upon my foul.
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