Yet fay, can Rhine or Danube boaft
The numerous glories thou haft loft?
Can ev'n Euphrates' palmy fhore,

Or Nile, with all his myftic lore,

Produce from old records of genuine fame Such heroes, poets, kings, or emulate thy name? Ev'n now the Muse, the conscious Muse is here; From every ruin's formidable shade

Eternal Mufic breathes on Fancy's ear,

And wakes to more than form th' illustrious dead.
Thy Cæfars, Scipios, Catos rife,

The great, the virtuous, and the wife,

In folemn state advance!

They fix the philosophic eye,

Or trail the robe, or lift on high
The light'ning of the lance.
IV.

But chief that humbler happier train

Who knew thofe virtues to reward

Beyond the reach of chance or pain
Secure, th' hiftorian and the bard.

By them the hero's generous rage
Still warm in youth immortal lives;

And in their adamantine page

Thy glory ftill furvives.

Through

Through deep Savannahs wild and vast,
Unheard, unknown through ages past,
Beneath the fun's directer beams

What copious torrents pour their streams!
No fame have they, no fond pretence to mourn,
No annals fwell their pride, or grace their storied urm
Whilft Thou, with Rome's exalted genius join'd,
Her fpear yet lifted, and her corflet brac❜d,
Can't tell the waves, can't tell the paffing wind
Thy wond'rous tale, and cheer the lift'ning waste.
Though from his caves th' unfeeling North
Pour'd all his legion'd tempefts forth,

Yet ftill thy laurels bloom:

One deathless glory still remains,

Thy stream bas roll'd through LATIAN plains,
Has wafh'd the walls of ROME.

ELEGIES.

Written at the Convent of HAUT VILLERS in CHAMPAGNE, 1754.

ILENT and clear, through yonder peaceful vale,

SILEN

While Marne's flow waters weave their mazy way, See, to th' exulting fun, and foft'ring gale,

What boundless treasures his rich banks display!

Fast by the stream, and at the mountain's base,
The lowing herds through living pastures rove;
Wide-waving harvests crown the rifing space;
And still fuperior nods the viny grove.

High on the top, as guardian of the fcene,
Imperial Sylvan fpreads his umbrage wide;
Nor wants there many a cot, and fpire between,
Or in the vale, or on the mountain's fide,

To mark that Man, as tenant of the whole,
Claims the juft tribute of his culturing care,
Yet pays to Heaven, in gratitude of foul,
The boon which Heaven accepts of, praise and prayer:

O dire effects of war! the time has been

When Defolation vaunted here her reign; One ravag'd defart was yon beauteous scene, And Marne ran purple to the frighted Seine.

Oft at his work the toilfome day to cheat

The fwain still talks of those disastrous times, When Guife's pride, and Condé's ill-star'd heat · Taught christian zeal to authorize their crimes:

Oft to his children sportive on the grafs

Does dreadful tales of worn Tradition tell,

Oft points to Epernay's ill-fated pass

Where Force thrice triumph'd, and where Biron fell.

Through this fweet vale the voice of difcord cease!

A British bard to Gallia's fertile fhore

Can wish the bleffings of eternal peace.

Yet

Yet fay, ye monks, (beneath whofe mofs-grown feat, Within whofe cloifter'd cells th' indebted Mufe Awhile fojourns, for meditation meet,

And these loose thoughts in pensive strain pursues,)

Avails it aught, that War's rude tumults fpare
Yon cluster'd vineyard, or yon golden field,
If niggards to yourselves, and fond of care,
You flight the joys their copious treasures yield?

Avails it aught, that Nature's liberal hand
With every bleffing grateful man can know
Cloaths the rich bofom of yon fmiling land,
The mountain's floping fide, or pendant brow,

If meagre Famine paint your pallid cheek,

If breaks the midnight bell your hours of rest, If, 'midst heart-chilling damps, and winter bleak, You fhun the cheerful bowl, and moderate feaft?

Look forth, and be convinc'd! 'tis Nature pleads,
Her ample volume opens on your view,
The fimple-minded fwain, who running reads,
Feels the glad truth, and is it hid from you?