With melting fweetness, or with magic fire,
Breathe the foft lute, or strike the louder lyre?
From that fam'd lyre no vulgar mufic sprung,
The Graces tun'd it, and Apollo ftrung.

Apollo too was once a shepherd swain,
And fed the flock, and grac'd the ruftic plain,
He taught what charms to rural life belong,
The focial sweetness, and the fylvan fong;
He taught, fair Wisdom in her grove to woo,
Her joys how precious, and her wants how few!
The favage herds in mute attention flood,
And ravifh'd Echo fill'd the vocal wood;
The facred Sifters, stooping from their sphere,
Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear.
Till Heav'n the scene furvey'd with jealous eyes,
And Jove, in envy, call'd him to the fkies.

Young Polydore was rich in large domains,
In fmiling paftures, and in flow'ry plains:
With thefe, he boafted each exterior charm,
To win the prudent, and the cold to warm;
To act the tenderness he never felt,
In forrow foften, and in anguish melt,
The figh elaborate, the fraudful tear,
The joy diffembled, and the well-feign'd fear,
All these were his; and his the treach❜rous art
That steals the guileless and unpractis'd heart.

Too foon he heard of Lindamira's fame,
'Twas each enamour'd fhepherd's fav'rite theme;
Return'd the rifing, and the fetting fun,
The fhepherd's fav'rite theme was never done;
They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her air
And e'en inferior beauties thought her fair.

Such fweet perfection all his wonder mov'd;
He faw, admir'd, nay, fancy'd that he lov❜d:
But Polydore no real paffion knew,
Loft all to truth in feigning to be true.
No fenfe of tendernefs could warm a heart,
Too proud to feel, too felfish to impart,

Cold as the fnows of Rhodope defcend,
And with the chilling waves of Hebrus blend ;

So cold the breaft where vanity presides,
And mean felf-love the bosom feelings guides.

Too well he knew to make his conqueft fure,
Win her foft heart, yet keep his own secure.
So oft he told the well-imagin'd tale,
So oft he fwore-how should he not prevail?
Too unfufpecting not to be deceiv'd,

The well-imagin'd tale the nymph believ'd;
She lov'd the youth, fhe thought herself belov'd,
Nor blufh'd to praise whom every maid approv❜d.
Alas! that youth, from Lindamira far,
For newer conquefts wages cruel war;
With other nymphs on other plains he roams,
Where injur'd Lindamira never comes;
Laughs at her eafy faith, infults her woe,
Nor pities tears himself had taught to flow.

And now her eye's soft radiance feem'd to fail,
And now the crimfon of her cheek grew pale;
The lilly there, in faded beauty, fhows
Its fickly empire o'er the vanquish'd rofe.
Devouring forrow marks her for his prey,
And flow and certain mines his filent way.
Yet, as apace her ebbing life declin'd,
Increafing ftrength fuftain'd her firmer mind.
'Oh! had my heart been hard as his,' fhe cry'd,
'An hapless victim thus I had not dy'd:

If there be gods, and gods there surely are, 'Infulted virtue doubtlefs is their care.

'Then haften, righteous Heav'n! my tedious fate, Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date:

Quick let your pow'r transform this failing frame, 'Let me be any thing but what I am!

And fince the cruel woes I'm doom'd to feel,

Proceed, alas! from having lov'd too well;

'Grant me fome form where love can have no part,

'Nor human weakness reach my guarded heart."

If pity has not left your bleft abodes,

Change me to flinty adamant, ye gods;

To hardest rock, or monumental tone,

Rather than let me know the pangs I've known, So fhall I thus no farther torments prove, 'Nor taunting rivals say " fhe dy'd for love."

For fure if aught can aggrevate our fate,
'Tis fcorn or pity from the breaft we hate.'
She faid-the gods accord the fad requeft:
For when were pious prayers in vain address'd?

Now, ftrange to tell, if rural folks fay true,
To harden'd rock the ftiff'ning damfel grew;
No more her fhapeless features can be known,
Stone her body, and her limbs are ftone;
The growing rock invades her beauteous face;
And quickly petrifies each living grace;
The flone her ftature nor her shape retains,
The nymph is vanish'd, but the rock remains..
Yet would her heart its vital fpirits keep,
And scorn to mingle with the marble heap.

When babbling Fame the fatal tidings bore,
Grief feiz'd the foul of perjur'd Polydore;
Defpair and horror robb’d his soul of rest,
And deep compunction wrung his tortur'd breast,
Then to the fatal spot in hafte he hy'd,
And plung'd a deadly poniard in his fide:

He bent his dying eyes upon the stone,

6

And, Take, fweet maid,' he cry'd, my parting groan.'
Fainting, the feel he grafp'd, and, as he fell,

The weapon pierc'd the rock he lov'd fo well;
The guiltlefs fteel affail'd the mortal part,
And ftabb'd the vital, vulnerable heart;
The life-blood iffuing from the wounded stone,
Blends with the crimfon current of his own,
And, though revolving ages fince have past,
The meeting torrents undiminish'd last;'
Still gufhes out the fanguine ftream amain,
The flanding wonder of the stranger fwain.

Now once a year, fo ruftic records tell,
When o'er the heath resounds the midnight bell;
On eve of Midfummer, that foe to fleep,
What time young maids their annual vigils keep,
The tell-tale fhrub fresh gather'd to declare
The fwains who falfe, from those who conftant are;
When ghofts, in clanking chains, the church-yard walk,
And to the wond'ring ear of fancy talk:

* Midsummer-men, confulted, as oracles, by village-maids.

When the scar'd maid fteals trembling through the grove,
To kiss the tomb of him who dy'd for love:
When with long watchings, Care, at length oppreft,
Steals broken paufes of uncertain rest;

Nay, Grief fhort fnatches of repofe can take,
And nothing but Defpair is quite awake:
Then, at that hour, fo ftill, fo full of fear,
When all things horrible to thought appear,
Is perjur'd Polydore obferv'd to rove,

A ghaftly fpectre, through the gloomy grove;
Then to the Rock, the Bleeding Rock repair,
Where, fadly fighing, it diffolves to air.

Still when the hours of folemn rites return,
The village train in fad proceffion mourn;
Pluck every weed which might the spot difgrace,
And plant the fairest field-flow'rs in their place :
Around no noxious plant or flow'ret grows,
But the first daffodil, and earliest rose:
The fnow-drop spreads its whiteft bosom here,
And golden cowflips grace the vernal year:
Here the pale primrose takes a fairer hue,
And every vi'let boasts a brighter blue.
Here builds the wood-lark, here the faithful dove
Laments her loft, or wooes her living love.
Secure from harm is ev'ry hallow'd neft,
The fpot is facred where true-lovers rest.
To guard the rock from each malignant fprite,
A troop of guardian spirits watch by night,
Aloft in air each takes his little fland,

The neighb'ring hill is hence call'd Fairy Land.*

On the DEATH of a FAVOURITE old spanieL.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Phillis!

AND they have drown'd thee then at last, poor
The burthen of old age was heavy on thee,
And yet thou shouldst have liv'd! What tho' thine eye
Was dim, and watch'd no more, with eager joy,

By contraction Failand, a hill well known in Somerfet fhire;. not far from this is the Bleeding Rock, from which conftantly iffues a crimion current.

The wonted call, that on thy dull fense funk
With fruitless repetition, the warm fun

Would ftill have cheer'd thy flumber; thou didst love
To lick the hand that fed thee; and though paft
Youth's active feason, even life itself

Was comfort. Poor old friend! most earnestly
Would I have pleaded for thee; thou hadft been
Still the companion of my childish sports:
And, as I roam'd o'er Avon's woody cliffs,
From many a day-dream has thy short quick bark
Recall'd my wand'ring foul. I have beguil❜d
Often the melancholy hours at school,
Sour'd by fome little tyrant, with the thought
Of diftant home, and I remember'd then
Thy faithful fondnefs: for not mean the joy,
Returning at the pleasant holidays,

I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively
Sometimes have I remark'd thy flow decay,
Feeling myself chang'd too, and mufing much
On many a fad viciffitude of life!

Ah! poor companion! when thou follow'dft last
Thy mafter's parting footsteps to the gate
That clos'd for ever on him, thou didst lose
Thy trueft friend, and none was left to plead
For the old age of brute fidelity!

But fare thee well! mine is no narrow creed:
And HE who gave thee being, did not frame
The mystery of life to be the fport

Of mercilefs man! There is another world
For all that live and move-a better one!
Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine
Infinite Goodness to the little bounds
Of their own charity, may envy thee!

THE RAZOR-SELLER.

BY PETER PINDAR, ESQ.

FTo gany, unlels that you are flarving:

ORBEAR, my friends, to facrifice your fame

I own that hunger will indulgence claim
For hard ftone heads and landscape carving.