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Yet say, can Rhine or Danube boast
From every ruin's formidable shade
In solemn state advance !
Who knew those virtues to reward
Secure, th' historian and the bard.
Still warm in youth immortal lives ;
Through deep Savannahs wild and vast,
What copious torrents pour their streams !
Her spear yet lifted, and her corfler brac'd,
Though from his caves th’ unfeeling North
Yet still thy laurels bloom:
Has wash'd the walls of Rome.
E LE G 1 E S.
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.
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
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,