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By the fame Hand.
upon the Day of the lato Storm.
To the Right Honourable CHARLES Lord HALLIFAX.
In the Year MDCC I.
Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Virg. Geo. 2,
HILE you, my Lord, the rural Shades
admire, And from Britannia's publick Pofts
retire; Nor longer, her ungrateful Sons to
please, For their advantage sacrifice your
Me into Foreign Realms my Fate conveys,
For whereloe'er I turn my ravith'd Eyes,
For here the Muse so oft her Harp has ftrung,
How am I pleas'd to search the Hills and Woods
Through the long windings of a fruitful Shore,
Fird with a thousand Raptures I survey
Sometimes misguided by the tuneful Throng,
Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
Oh cou'd the Muse my ravisht Breast inspire With Warmth like yours, and raise an equal Fire, Unnumber'd Beauties in my Verse shou'd fine, And Virgil's Italy shou'd yield to mine!
See how the Golden Groves around me smile, That fun the Coast of Britain's stormy Ine ; Or when transplanted and preserv'd with Care, Curse the Cold Clime, and starve in Northern Air. Here kindly Warmth their mounting Juice ferments To nobler Taftes, and more exalted Scents. Ev’n the rough Rocks with tender Myrtle bloom, And trodden Weeds send out a rich Perfume. Bear me some God to Baja's gentle Seats, Or cover me in Umbria's Green Retreats ; Where Western Gales eternally reside, And all the Seasons layish all their Pride, Blossoms, and Fruits, and Flowers together rise, And the whole Year in gay Confusion lies.
Immortal Glories in my Mind revive, And in my Soul a thousand Passions strive, When Rome's exalted Beauties I descry Magnificent in Piles of Ruin lye: An Amphitheater's amazing height Here fills my Eye with Terror and Delight, That on its publick Shows unpeopled Rome, And held uncrowded Nations in its Womb. Here Pillars rough with Sculpture pierce the skies, And here the proud Triumphal Arches rise, Where the old Romans deathless A&s display'd, Their base degenerate Progeny upbraid. Whole Rivers here forsake the Fields below, And wondring at their height through airy Chan
nels flow. Still to new Scenes my wandring Muse retires, And the dumb show of breathing Rocks admires ; Where the smooch Chisel all its Force has shown, And soften'd into Flesh the rugged Stone.