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She spoke, she dy’d, her corse was borne,

The bridegroom blithe to meet,
He in his wedding-trim fo gay,

She in her winding-sheet.
Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts ?

How were these nuptials kept ?
The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,

And all the village wept.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bofom fwell :
The damps of death bedew'd his brow,

He shook, he groan'd, he fell.
From the vain bride, ah, bride no more!

The varying crimson fled,
When, stretch'd before her rival's corse,

She saw her husband dead.
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,

Convey'd by trembling fwains,
One mould with her, beneath one fod,

For ever he remains.
Oft at this grave, the constant hind

And plighted maid are seen ;
With garlands gray, and true-love knots,

They deck the sacred green;
But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,

This hallow'd spot forbear ;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,

And fear to meet him there.





O Whitton's shades, and Hounslow's airy plain,

Thou, Kneller, tak'st thy summer flights in vain,
In vain thy wish gives all thy rural hours
To the fair villa, and well-order'd bowers;
To court thy pencil early at thy gates,
Ambition knocks, and fleeting Beauty waits ;
The boaftful Muse, of others fame so sure,
Implores thy aid to make her own secure;
The Great, the Fair, and, if aught nobler be,
Aught more belov'd, the Arts folicit thee.

How canst thou hope to fly the world, in vain
From Europe sever'd by the circling main ;
Sought by the kings of every distant land,
And every hero worthy of thy hand ?
Hast thou forgot that mighty Bourbon fear'd
He still was mortal, till thy draught appear'd ?"
That Cosmo chose thy glowing form to place,
Amidst her masters of the Lombard race ?
See on her Titian's and her Guido's urns,
Her falling arts forlorn Hesperia mourns ;
While Britain wins each garland from her brow,
Her wit and freedom first, her painting now.

Let the faint copier, on old Tiber's shore,
Nor mean the task, each breathing bust explore,
Line after line with painful patience trace,
This Roman grandeur, that Athenian grace :

Vain care of parts ; if, impotent of soul,
Th' industrious workman fails to warm the whole,
Each theft betrays the marble whence it came,
And a cold statue stiffens in the frame.
Thee Nature taught, nor Art her aid deny d,
The kindest mistress, and the surest guide,
To catch a likeness at one piercing fight,
And place the fairest in the faireft light;
Ere yet thy pencil tries her nicer toils,
Or on thy palette lie the blended oils,
Thy careless chalk has half atchiev'd thy art,
And her just image makes Cleora start.

A mind that grasps the whole is rarely found,
Half learn’d, half painters, and half wits abound;
Few, like thy genius, at proportion aim,
All great, all graceful, and throughout the fame.

Such be thy life, O since the glorious rage That fir'd thy youth, flames unsubdued by age; Though wealth, nor fame, now touch thy fated inind, Still tinge the canvas, bounteous to mankind; Since after thee may rise an impious line, Coarse manglers of the human face divine, Paint on, till Fate diffolve thy mortal part, And live and die the monarch of thy art.



F Marlborough's captains and Eugenio's friends, , Low lies each hand, whence Blenheim's glory sprung, The chiefs who conquer’d, and the bards who sung, From his cold corse though every friend be fled, Lo! Envy waits, that lover of the dead : Thus did the feign o'er Nassau's hearse to mourn; Thus wept insidious, Churchill, o'er thy urn; To blast the living, gave the dead their due, And wreaths, herself had tainted, trim'd anew. Thou, yet unnam'd to fill his empty place, And lead to war thy country's growing race, Take every.

wilh a British heart can franie, Add palm to palm, and rise from fame to fame.

An hour must coine, when thou shalt hear with rage Thyself traduc'd, and curse a thankless age: Nor yet for this decline the generous strife,

These ills, brave man, șhall quit thee with thy life; Alive though stain’d by every abject llave, Secure of fame and justice in the grave. Ah! no -when once the mortal yields to Fate, The blast of Fanie's sweet trumpet sounds too late, Too late to stay the spirit on its flight, Or footh the new inhabitant of light; Who hears regardless, while fond man, distress d, Hangs on the absent, and laments the blest.


Farewell then Fame,ill fought through fields and blood, Farewell unfaithful promiser of good : Thou music, warbling to the deafen’d ear! Thou incense wasted on the funeral bier ! Through life pursued in vain, by death obtain’d, When ask'd deny'd us, and when given disdain d.




HOU dome, where Edward first enrolld

His red-cross knights and barons bold,
Whose vacant seats, by Virtue bought,
Ambitious emperors have fought :
Where Britain's foremost names are found,
In peace belov’d, in war renown’d,
Who made the hostile nations moan,
Or brought a blessing on their own :

Once more a son of Spencer waits,
A naine familiar to thy gates ;
Sprung from the chief whose prowess gain'd
The Garter while thy founder reign'd,
He offer'd here his dinted Thield,
The dread of Gauls in Cressi's field,
Which, in thy high-arch'd temple rais'd,
For four lorg centuries hath blaz’d.

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