NUMBER II.

Fame, Wealth, and Honour, what are you to Love!

POLYDORE AND LINDAMIRA; OR, THE BLEEDING ROCK.

WHERE beauteous Belmont rears its mo

deft brow

To view Sabrina's filver waves below,
Liv'd Lindamira; fair as beauty's queen,
The fame sweet form, the fame enchanting
mien,

With all that fofter elegance of mind
By genius heighten'd, and by taste refined.
Yet early was the doom'd the child of care,
For love, ill-fated love, fubdu'd the fair.
Ah! what avails each captivating grace,
The form enchanting, or the finish'd face?
Or what, each beauty, on the heav'n-born
mind,

The foul fuperior, or the taste refin'd?
Beauty but ferves deftruction to infure,
And fenfe, to feel the pang it cannot cure.

Each neighb'ring youth afpir'd to gain her hand,

And

many a fuitor came from many a land. But all in vain each neighb'ring youth aspir'd,

And diftant fuitors all in vain admir'd.

Averfe to hear, yet fearful to offend,

The lover fhe refus'd fhe made a friend:
Her meek rejection wore fo mild a face,
More like acceptance feem'd it, than disgrace.

Young Polydore, the pride of rural swains, Was wont to vifit Belmont's blooming plains. Who has not heard how Polydore cou'd throw The unerring dart to wound the flying doe? How leave the fwifteft at the race behind," How mount the courfer and outstrip the wind? With melting fweetnefs, or with magic fire, Breathe the foft flute, or ftrike the louder lyre? From that fam'd lyre no vulgar music sprung; The Graces tun'd it, and Apollo ftrung.

Apollo too was once a fhepherd fwain, And fed the flock, and grac'd the rustic plain. He taught what charms to rural life belong, The focial sweetness, and the sylvan song; He taught, fair wisdom in her grove to woo, Her joys how precious, and her wants how few!

The favage herds in mute attention stood,
And ravish'd echo fill'd the vocal wood;
The facred fifters, stooping from the sphere,
Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear:
Till heav'n the scene survey'd with jealous eyes,
And Jove, in envy, call'd him to the skies.

Young Polydore was rich in large domains, In fmiling paftures, and in flowery 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 soften, 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 fteals the guilelefs 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 even inferior beauties thought her fair.

Such sweet perfection all his wonder mov'd: He saw, admir'd, nay, fancied that he lov❜d: But Polydore no real paffion knew,

Loft all to truth in feigning to be true.
No fenfe of tenderness could warm a heart,
Too proud to feel, too felfifh to impart.

Cold as the fnows of Rhodope descend, And with the chilling waves of Hebrus blend; So cold the breast where vanity prefides, And mean felf-love the bofom-feelings guides.

Too well he knew to make his conqueft fure, Win her soft heart, yet keep his own secure. So oft he told the well-imagin'd tale, So oft he swore-how fhou'd 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 blush'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 foft radiance feem'd to

fail,

And now the crimson of her cheek grew pale;
The lily there, in faded beauty, fhews
Its fickly empire o'er the vanquish'd rose.
Devouring forrow marks her for his prey,
And flow and certain mines his filent way.
Yet, as apace her ebbing life declin'd,
Increasing ftrength fuftain'd her firmer mind.
‹ had my heart been hard as his,' fhe cried,
• An hapless victim thus I had not died:

If there be gods, and gods there furely are, • Infulted virtue doubtlefs is their care.

• Then haften righteous Heaven! my tedious fate,

• Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date: Quick let your power 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 blest abodes,
Change me to flinty adamant, ye gods;
VOL. IV.

B