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Yet, when the rage of battle ceas’d,
The victor's soul was not appeas’d;
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring feel!

VI.
The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread,
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

VII.

my

Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns ;
Resentment of my country's fate
Within

filial breast shall beat ;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow,
“Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn,
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn.”

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ON

ON THE DEATH OF THE

LORD PROTECTOR.

Our poetry was not quite harmonized in Waller's

time; so that this, which would be now looked upon as a slovenly sort of versification, was, with respect to the times in which it was written, almost a prodigy of harmony. A modern reader will chiefly be ftruck with the strength of thinking, and the turn of the compliments bestowed upon the usurper. Every body has heard the answer our poet made Charles II ; who asked him how his

poem upon Cromwell came to be finer than his panegyric upon himself, “ Your majesty, replies Waller, “knows, that poets always suco ceed beft in fiction.”

WE

E must resign! Heav'n his great foul does claimi

In storms, as loud as his immortal fame :
His dying groans, his laft breath shakes our ille ;
And trees uncut fall for his fun'ral pile :
About his palace their broad roots are toft
Into the air -So Romulus was lost !
New Rome in such a tempest miss'd her king ;
And, from obeying, fell to worshipping.
On Eta's top thus Hercules lay dead,
With rain'd oaks, and pines, about him spread.

The

The poplar, too, whose bough he wont to wear
On his victorious head, lay proftrate there.
Those his last fury from the mountain rent:
Our dying hero from the continent.
Ravish'd whole towns, and forts from Spaniards reft,
As his laft legacy to Britain left.
The ocean, which fo long our hopes confin’d,
Could give no limits to his vafter mind;
Our bounds' enlargement was his latest toil;
Nor hath he left us pris’ners to our isle:
Under the tropic is our language spoke :
And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
From civil broils he did us disengage;
Found nobler objects for our martial rage:
And, with wise conduct, to his country show'd
The antient way of conq'ring abroad.
Ungrateful, then ! if we no tears allow
To him, that gave us peace, and empire. too.
Princes that fear'd him, grieve; concern'd to see
No pitch of glory from the grave is free.
Nature herself took notice of his death,
And, fighing, swell'd the sea with such a breath,
That to remoteft fhores her billows rollid,
Th' approaching fate of their great ruler told.

1

THE

THE STORY OF

PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE,

A P P L I E D.

The French claim this as belonging to them. To whomsoever it belongs the thought is finely turned.

, :

HYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,

Fair Sachariffa lov'd, but lov'd in vain : Like Phæbus sung the no less amorous boy ; Like Daphne she; as lovely, and as coy ! With numbers he the flying nymph pursues ; With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use ! Such is the chase when love and fancy leads, O'er craggy mountains, and thro’ Aow'ry meads; Invok'd to testify the lover's care, Or form fome image of his cruel fair. Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer, O’er these he fed, and now approaching near, Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay, Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. Yet, what he sung in his immortal strain, Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain : All, but the nymph that should redress his wrong, Attend his paffion, and approve his song. Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unfought praise, He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.

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