Or where fome duct, by rolling seasons worn,

Convey'd pure ftreams to Rome's imperial wall, Near the wide breach in filence 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 confufion ftrewn ; Let banish'd Marius, lowering by thy fide, Compare thy fickle fortunes with his own.

Ah no! thou monarch of the ftorms! forbear! My trembling nerves abhor thy rude controul, And fcarce a pleasing twilight soothes my care, Ere one vaft death like darkness shocks my foul, 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 fky brighten, or Melisia smile.

ELE GY XVIII.

He repeats the fong of Co LL1N, a difcerning fhepherd; lamenting the ftate of the woollen manufactory.

"Ergo omni ftudio glaciem ventosque nivales,
"Quo minus eft illis curæ mortalis egestas,
"Avertes: victumque feres."

VIRG,

NEAR Avon's bank, on Arden's flowery plain,

A* tuneful fhepherd charm'd the listening wave;

And funny Cotfol' fondly lov'd the strain ;
Yet not a garland crowns the shepherd's grave!

* Mr, Somervile.

Oh!

Oh! loft Ophelia! fmoothly flow'd the day,
To feel his mufic with my flames agree!
To taste the beauties of his melting lay,

To tafte, and fancy it was dear to thee.
When, for his tomb, with each revolving year,
I fteal the mufk-rofe from the fcented brake,
I ftrew my cowflips, and I pay my tear,

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

Shivering beneath a leafless thorn he lay,

When death's chill rigour feiz'd his flowing tongue;
The more I found his faultering notes decay,

The more prophetic truth fublim'd the fong.
"Adieu my flocks, he faid! my wonted care,
By funny mountain, or by verdant shore!
May fome more happy hand your fold prepare,
And may you need your
Collin's crook no more!
And you, ye shepherds! lead my gentle fheep;
To breezy hills, or leafy fhelters lead ;
But if the sky with fhowers inceffant 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 avail 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 floth obtain the rich reward,

If Gallia's craft the ponderous fleece purloin.

Was it for this, by conftant vigils worn,

I met the terrors of an early grave;
For this I led them from the pointed thorn ?
For this I bath'd them in the lucid wave?
Ah heedlefs Albion! too benignly prone

Thy blood to lavish, and thy wealth resign!
Shall every other virtue grace thy throne,
But quick-ey'd prudence never yet be thine ?
From the fair natives of this peerless hill

Thou gav'ft the sheep that browze 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 foft fhepherd, all the livelong day, Chaunts his proud mistress to his hoarse guittar. But Albion's youth her native fleece despise; Unmov'd they hear the pining shepherd's moan; In filky folds each nervous limb disguise, Allur'd by every treasure, but their own. Oft have I hurry'd down the rocky steep, Anxious, to see the wintry tempest drive ; Preferve, faid I, preferve your fleece, my sheep! Ere long will Phillis, will my love arrive. Ere long the came: ah! woe is me, she came !

Rob'd in the Gallic loom's extraneous twine: For gifts like these they give their spotless fame,

Refign their bloom, their innocence refign.

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 fame ? Will no fam'd 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 unfeen my ravifh'd fancy fires? I pierce the dreary shade of future days; Sure 'tis the genius of the land inspires, To breath 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 uncontroul'd; Britons for Britain fhall the crook employ; Britons for Britain's glory fhear the fold."

A

GAIN the labouring hind inverts the foil;
Again the merchant ploughs the tumid wave;

Another spring renews the foldier's toil,

And finds me vacant in the rural cave.

As the foft lyre difplay'd my wonted loves,
The penfive pleasure and the tender pain,
The fordid Alpheus hurry'd through my groves;
Yet ftop'd to vent the dictates of disdain.

He glanc'd contemptuous o'er my ruin'd fold;
He blam'd the graces of my
favourite bower;
My breast, unfully'd by the luft of gold;
My time, unlavish'd in pursuit of power.
Yes, Alpheus! fly the purer paths of fate;
Abjure thefe fcenes from venal passions free;
Know, in this grove, I vow'd perpetual hate,
War, endless war, with lucre and with thee.
Here nobly zealous, in my youthful hours,
I dreft an altar to Thalia's name:

Here, as I crown'd the verdant fhrine with flowers,
Soft on my labours ftole the fmiling dame.

Damon, she cry'd, if pleas'd with honeft praise,
Thou court fuccefs by virtue or by fong,
Fly the falfe dictates of the venal race;
Fly the grofs accents of the venal tongue.
Swear that no lucre fhall thy zeal betray;

Swerve not thy foot with fortune's votaries mort Brand thou their lives, and brand their lifeless dayThe winning phantom urg'd me, and I fwore.

Forth from the ruftic altar fwift I ftray'd,
"Aid my firm purpose, ye celeftial powers!

Aid me to quell the fordid breaft, I faid;
And threw my javelin tow'rds their hoftile towers

* A Roman ceremony in declaring war.

This