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LETTER from ITALY,

To the Right Honourable CHARLES Lord HALLIFAX.

In the Year MDCC I.

Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna Virúm! tibi res Antiqua laudis do Artis
Aggredior, fan&tos aufus recludere fontes.

Virg. Geo. 2,
By Mr. JOSEPH ADDISON.

W

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

Ease;

Me into Foreign Realms my Fate conveys,
Through Nations fruitful of Immortal Lays,
Where the soft Season and inviting Clime
Conspire to trouble your Repose with Rhime.

For whereloe'er I turn my ravith'd Eyes,
Gay gilded Scenes and thining Prospects rises
Poetick Fields encompass me around,
And still i seem to tread on Claffic Ground;

VOL. V.

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For here the Muse so oft her Harp has ftrung,
That not a Mountain rears its Head unsung,
Renown'd in Verse each fhady Thicket grows,
And ev'ry Stream in Hear’nly Numbers flows.

How am I pleas'd to search the Hills and Woods
For rising Springs and celebrated Floods!
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his Course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his Sourse,
- To see the Mincio draw his watry Store

Through the long windings of a fruitful Shore,
And hoary Albula's infected Tide
O’er the warm Bed of smoaking Sulphur glide.

Fird with a thousand Raptures I survey
- Eridanus through flow'ry Meadows stray,
The King of Floods! that rolling o'er the Plains
The Tow’ring Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly fwoln with a whole Winter's Snows,
Distributes Wealth and Plenty where he flows.

Sometimes misguided by the tuneful Throng,
I look for Streams immortaliz’d in Song,
That loft in Silence and Oblivion lye,
(Dumb are their Fountains and their Channels dry)
"Yet run for ever by the Muses skill,
And in the smooth Description murmur ftill.

Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the fam'd River's empty Shores admire,
That deftitute of strength derives its Course
From thrifty Urns and an unfruitful Sourfe;
Yet sung so often in Foerick Lays,
With scorn the Danube and the Nile Surveys.
So high the deathless Muse exalts her Theme!
Such was the Boin, a poor inglorious Stream,
That in Hibernian Vales obscurely atray'd,
And unobserv'd in wild Meanders play'd;
Till by Tour Lines and Naffau's Sword renown'd,
Its rising Billows through the World refound,
Where-e'er the Heroe's Godlike Acts can pierce,
Or where the Fame of an Immortal Verse.

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.

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