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Yet say, can Rhine or Danube boast
The numerous glories thou hast loft ?
Can ev'n Euphrates' palmy shore,
Or Nile, with all his mystic 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 Music breathes on Fancy's ear,
And wakes to more than form th' illustrious dead.
· Thy Cæsars, Scipios, Catos rise,
The great, the virtuous, and the wise,

In solemn state advance !
They fix the philosophic eye,
Or trail the robe, or lift on high
The lightning of the lance.

But chief that humbler happier train

Who knew those virtues to reward
Beyond the reach of chance or pain

Secure, th' historian and the bard.
By them the hero's generous rage

Still warm in youth immortal lives ;
And in their adamantine page
Thy glory still survives.





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

What copious torrents pour their streams !
No fame have they, no fond pretence to mourn,
No annals swell their pride, or grace their storied urna
Whilft Thou, with Rome's exalted genius join'd,

Her spear yet lifted, and her corfler brac'd,
Can'st tell the waves, can'ft tell the passing wind
Thy wond'rous tale, and cheer the liftning waste.

Though from his caves th’ unfeeling North
Pour'd all his legion'd tempefts forth, .

Yet still thy laurels bloom:
One deathless glory still remains,
Thy stream has rolld through Latian plains;

Has wash'd the walls of Rome.



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E LE G 1 E S.
. By the Same.

E LE G Y I... Written at the Convent of Haut Villers in


CILENT and clear, through yonder peaceful vale,

While Marne's Now waters weave their mazy way, See, to th' exulting fun, and fost'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 rising space;

And still superior nods the viny grove.

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High on the top, as guardian of the scene,

Imperial Sylvan spreads his umbrage wide ; Nor wants there many a cot, and spire between, Or in the vale, or on the mountain's side,

To mark that Man, as tenant of the whole;

Claims the just 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 Desolation vaunted here her reign; One ravag’d desart was yon beauteous scene,

And Marne ran purple to the frighted Seine.

Oft at his work the toilsome day to cheat

The swain still talks of those disastrous times, When Gùise's pride, and Condé's ill-ftard heat

Taught christian zeal to authorize their crimes :

Oft to his children sportive on the grass

Does dreadful tales of worn Tradition tell, Oft points to Epernay's ill-fated pass

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

O dire effects of war! - may ever more

Through this sweet vale the voice of discord cease ! A British bard to Gallia's fertile shore Can with the blessings of eternal peace.


Yet say, ye monks, (beneath whose moss-grown seat,

Within whose cloister'd cells th’indebted Muse Awhile sojourns, for meditation meet,

And these loose thoughts in pensive strain pursues,)

Avails it aught, that War's rude tumults spare

Yon cluster'd vineyard, or yon golden field, If niggards to yourselves, and fond of care,

You fight the joys their copious treasures yield ?

Avails it aught, that Nature's liberal hand
• With every blessing grateful man can know
Cloaths the rich bosom of yon smiling land,

The mountain's Noping side, or pendant brow,

If meagre Famine paint your pallid cheek,

If breaks the midnight bell your hours of rest, If, ʼmidst heart-chilling damps, and winter bleak,

You fhun the cheerful bowl, and moderate feast?

Look forth, and be convinç'd! 'tis Nature pleads,

Her ample volume opens on your view,
The simple-minded swain, who running reads,
Feels the glad truth, and is it hid from you?


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