Oh! loft Ophelia smoothly flow'd the day, To taste, and fancy it was dear to thee. Shivering beneath a leafless thorn he lay, When death's chill rigour feiz'd his flowing tongue; The more I found his faultering notes decay, The more prophetic truth fublim'd the song. "Adieu my flocks, he faid! my wonted care, By funny mountain, or by verdant shore! May fome more happy hand your fold prepare, And may you need your Collin's crook no more! And you, ye shepherds! lead my gentle sheep; To breezy hills, or leafy fhelters lead; But if the fky with showers inceffant weep, Where the wild thyme perfumes the purpled heath, Ah! what avails the timorous lambs to guard, If foreign floth obtain the rich reward, If Gallia's craft the ponderous fleece purloin. Was it for this, by conftant vigils worn, I met the terrors of an early grave; Thy blood to lavish, and thy wealth resign! Thou gav'ft the sheep that browze Iberian plains : Their plaintive cries the faithlefs region fill, Their fleece adorns an haughty foe's domains. Ill-fated flocks! from cliff to cliff they ftray; Far from their dams their native guardians far! Where the soft shepherd, all the livelong day, Chaunts his proud mistress to his hoarfe guittar. But Albion's youth her native fleece despise; Unmov'd they hear the pining fhepherd's moan; In filky folds each nervous limb disguise, Allur'd by every treasure, but their own. Oft have I hurry'd down the rocky steep, Anxious, to see the wintry tempest drive; Preferve, faid I, preferve your fleece, my fheep! Ere long will Phillis, will my love arrive. Ere long the came: ah! woe is me, she came ! Rob'd in the Gallic loom's extraneous twine: For gifts like these they give their spotlefs fame, Refign their bloom, their innocence refign. Will no bright maid, by worth, by titles known, Give the rich growth of British hills to fame ? And let her charms, and her example, own That virtue's dress, and beauty's are the fame ? Will no fam'd chief support this generous maid? Once more the patriot's arduous path refume? And, comely from his native plains array'd, 1 Speak future glory to the British loom? What power unfeen my ravish'd fancy fires? To breath my latest breath in * * *'s praise. Written in spring 1743. AGAIN the labouring hind inverts the foil; Again the merchant ploughs the tumid wave; Another spring renews the foldier's toil, And finds me vacant in the rural cave. As the foft lyre difplay'd my wonted loves, power. Yes, Alpheus! fly the purer paths of fate; Here, as I crown'd the verdant shrine with flowers, Swerve not thy foot with fortune's votaries more; Brand thou their lives, and brand their lifeless dayThe winning phantom urg'd me, and I fwore. Forth from the ruftic altar fwift I ftray'd, A Roman ceremony in declaring war. Think Think not regretful I furvey the deed; Or added years no more the zeal allow; The fhrine embellish, and repeat the vow. And Canna's walls, and Trebia's crimson fhore. And faw th' unwilling elephants retire. He saw th' unutterable grief prevail; He faw their tears, and in his fury smil'd. E 4 * Hannibal. Why |