Yet fung so often in poetic lays,
With fcorn the Danube and the Nile furveys;
So high the deathless muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream,
That in Hibernian vales obfcurely ftray'd,
And, unobferv'd, in wild meanders play'd;
"Till by your lines and Naffau's sword renown'd;
Its rifing billows through the world refound,
Where'er the Hero's godlike acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verse.
Oh cou'd the Muse my ravish'd breast inspire
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire,
Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine,
And Virgil's Italy shou'd yield to mine!
See how the golden groves around me smile,
That fhun the coaft of Britain's stormy isle,
Or, when tranfplanted and preserv'd with care,
Curfe the cold clime, and starve in northern air.
Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments
To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents:
E'en the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom,
And trodden weeds fend out a rich perfume.
Bear me, fome God, to Baia's gentle feats,
Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats;
Where western gales eternally refide,
And all the feasons lavish all their pride:
Bloffoms, and fruits, and flow'rs together rife,
And the whole year in gay confufion lies.
Immortal glories in my mind revive, And in my foul a thousand passions strive,
When Rome's exalted beauties I defcry,
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.
An amphitheatre's amazing height
Here fills my eye with terror and delight,
That on its public fhews Unpeopled Rome,
And held Uncrowded nations in its womb :
Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies :
And here the proud triumphal arches rife,
Where the old Romans deathless acts display'd,
Their bafe degenerate progeny upbraid:
Whole rivers here forfake the fields below,
And, wond'ring at their height, through airy channels flow.
Still to new scenes my wand'ring Muse retires;
And the dumb fhow of breathing rocks admires ;
Where the smooth chifel all its force has fhown,
And foften'd into flesh the rugged ftone.
In folemn filence, a majestic band,
Heroes, and Gods, and Roman Confuls, ftand,
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And emperors, in Parian marble frown;
While the bright dames, to whom they humbly fu'd,
Still show the charms that their proud hearts fubdu’d.
Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse,
And fhow th' immortal labours in my verse,
Where, from the mingled ftrength of fhade and light,
A new creation rifes to my fight,
Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colours glow,
From theme to theme with fecret pleasure toft,
Amidst the soft variety I'm lost:
Here pleafing airs my ravish'd soul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of found:
Here domes and temples rife in distant views,
And opening palaces invite my Mufe.
How has kind Heav'n adorn'd the happy land,
And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand!
But what avail her unexhausted stores,
Her blooming mountains, and her funny fhores, With all the gifts that Heav'n and earth impart, The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, While proud Oppreffion in her valleys reigns, And Tyranny ufurps her happy plains?
poor inhabitant beholds in vain
The redd'ning Orange and the fwelling grain :
Joylefs he fees the growing oils and wines,
And in the Myrtle's fragrant fhade repines:
Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curft,
And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.
Oh Liberty, thou goddess heav'nly bright,
Profuse of blifs, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy prefence reign,
And smiling Plenty leads thy wanton train;
Eas'd of her load Subjection grows more light,
And Poverty looks chearful in thy fight;
Thou mak'ft the gloomy face of Nature gay,
Giv'ft beauty to the Sun, and pleasure to the Day.
Thee, goddefs, thee Britannia's ifle adores;
How has the oft exhaufted all her ftores,
How oft, in fields of death, thy prefence fought,
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!
On foreign mountains may the Sun refine
The grape's foft juice, and mellow it to wine,
With Citron groves adorn a distant foil,
And the fat Olive fwell with floods of oil:
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,
Nor at the coarseness of our Heav'n repine,
Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads fhine:
'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,
And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains fmile.
Others with tow'ring piles may please the fight, And in their proud aspiring domes delight; A nicer touch to the stretch'd canvass give, Or teach their animated rocks to live: 'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate, And hold in balance each contending state; To threaten bold prefumptuous kings with war, And answer her afflicted neighbour's pray'r. The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms, Blefs the wife conduct of her pious arms: Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease, And all the northern world lies hush'd in peace. Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with fecret dread Her thunder aim'd at his aspiring head, And fain her godlike fons wou'd difunite By foreign gold, or by domeftic spite: But ftrives in vain to conquer or divide, Whom Naffau's arms defend and counfels guide. Fir'd with the name, which I fo oft have found The distant climes and diff'rent tongues refound
I bridle in my ftruggling Mufe with pain,
That longs to launch into a bolder ftrain.
But I've already troubled you too long, Nor dare attempt a more advent'rous fong. My humble verse demands a softer theme, A painted meadow, or a purling stream; Unfit for Heroes; whom immortal lays, And lines like Virgil's, or like your's, fhou'd praise.
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