Mr. Thomson, though, in general, a verbose and affected poet, has told this ftory with unusual fim
plicity it is rather given here for being much efteemed by the public, than by the editor.
HE lovely young Lavinia once had friends;
And Fortune fmil'd, deceitful, on her birth. For, in her helpless years, depriv'd of all, Of every stay, fave Innocence and Heaven, She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old, And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd Among the windings of a woody vale; By folitude and deep furrounding shades, But more by bafhful modefty, conceal'd. Together thus they fhunn'd the cruel fcorn Which virtue, funk to poverty, would meet From giddy paffion and low-minded pride: Almoft on Nature's common bounty fed; Like the gay birds that fung them to repose, Content, and careless of tomorrow's fare. Her form was fresher than the morning rofe,
When the dew wets its leaves: unstain'd, and
As is the lilly, or the mountain snow.
The modeft virtues mingled in her eyes,
Still on the ground dejected, darting all
Their humid beams into the blooming flowers:
Or when the mournful tale her mother told,
Of what her faithlefs fortune promis'd once,
Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy ftar
Of evening, fhone in tears. A native grace
Sat, fair-proportion'd, on her polish'd limbs,
Veil'd in a fimple robe, their best attire,
Beyond the pomp of drefs; for loveliness.
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the moft..
Thoughtless of beauty, fhe was beauty's felf,
Reclufe amid the close-embowering woods.
As, in the hollow breast of Appenine,
Beneath the fhelter of encircling hills,
A myrtle rifes, far from human eye,
And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild;
So flourish'd blooming, and unseen by all,
The sweet Lavinia; till, at length, compell'd
By ftrong Neceffity's fupreme command,
With fmiling patience in her looks, fhe went
To glean Palemon's fields. The pride of fwains-
Palemon was, the generous, and the rich ;
Who led the rural life in all its joy
And elegance, fuch as Arcadian fong
Tranfmits from ancient uncorrupted times;
When tyrant custom had not shackled Man,
But free to follow Nature was the mode.
He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes
Amufing, chanc'd befide his reaper-train
To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye;
Unconscious of her power, and turning quick
With unaffected blushes from his gaze :
He saw her charming, but he saw not half
The charms her down-caft modefty conceal'd.
That very moment love and chafte defire
Sprung in his bofom, to himself unknown;
For fill the world prevail'd, and its dread laugh,
Which scarce the firm philofopher can fcorn,
Should his heart own a gleaner in the field:
And thus, in fecret, to his foul he figh'd.
"What pity! that fo delicate a form,
By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense
And more than vulgar goodness seem to dwell,
Should be devoted to the rude embrace
Of fome indecent clown! She looks, methinks,
Of old Acafto's line; and to my mind
Recalls that patron of my happy life,
From whom my liberal fortune took its rise ;
Now to the duft gone down; his houses, lands,
And once fair-spreading family, diffolv'd.
'Tis faid, that, in fome lone, obfcure retreat,
Urg'd by remembrance fad, and decent pride,
Far from those scenes which knew their better days,
His aged widow and his daughter live,
Whom, yet, my fruitless fearch could never find.
Romantic wish! would this the daughter were!"
When, ftri&t enquiring, from herself he found
She was the fame, the daughter of his friend,
Of bountiful Acafto: who can speak
The mingled paffions that furpris'd his heart,
And thro' his nerves in fhiv'ring transport ran?
Then blaz'd his fmother'd flame, avow'd, and bold;
And as he view'd her, ardent, o'er and o'er,
Love, gratitude, and pity, wept at once.
Confus'd, and frighten'd at his fudden tears,
Her rifing beauties flush'd a higher bloom,
As thus Palemon, paffionate, and juft,
Pour'd out the pious rapture of his foul.
“And art thou, then, Acasto's dear remains ?
She, whom my restless gratitude has fought
So long in vain? O heavens! the very fame,
The foftened image of my noble friend
Alive, his every look, his every feature,
More elegantly touch'd. Sweeter than Spring!
Thou fole furviving blossom from the root
That nourish'd up my fortune! Say, ah where,
In what fequefter'd defart, haft thou drawn
The kindest aspect of delighted Heaven?
Into fuch beauty fpread, and blown fo fair;
Tho' Poverty's cold wind, and crushing rain,
Beat keen, and heavy, on thy tender years?
O let me, now, into a richer foil
Tranfplant thee fafe; where vernal funs, and fhowers,
Diffuse their warmeft, largest influence;
And of my garden be the pride, and joy!
Ill it befits thee, oh it ill befits
|