Th' infernal priefteffes look fiercely on me;
They thirst for blood, and I'm the deftin'd victim!
Nay, ftrive not-for I will not let thee go, While thefe weak arms can fold thee-
One of my curft tormentors ?--Hence-I know thee; Thou grafp'ft me thus to plunge me down to hell.
Oh! whence can wretched mortals hope for fuccour, When Heaven is deaf, and all the gods our foes!
Reach me the weapons of the fhooting god, Apollo's gift, the fhafts and horny bow; With these he bad me drive the fiends away, When cruel, they attack me
Can deathlefs beings feel a mortal wound?
They shall or leave my tortur'd fight-behold!
Doft thou not fee their feather'd shafts fly round me ?
Begone, ye minifters of wrath-Away! away!
The guilt 's not mine-Hence, through the yielding
Fly fwift to Heaven-and charge Apollo there,
Whofe oracle betray'd me-Ah! I faint;
My fpirits fink-Where am I now? Alas!
How have I left my bed?-how stray'd I hither?
O-I perceive—once more the raging waves
Have fpent their force-and all is calm again—
My filter?-weeping too? Why doft thou turn
Thy face away, thus muffled in thy garment?
I grieve to think what I have made thee fuffer;
I know, my ficknefs bears too hard upon thee;
Yet weep not for my crimes, unhappy maid!
The deed was mine-Thou only didst consent :
'Twas I that flew my mother-Phoebus himself
Advis'd that impious act-the guilt be his,
Whofe words fpoke comfort, but who now forfakes me.
But oh! Electra, had our father's fhade
Been prefent then-had I, before the god,
Afk'd his confent, to ftrike the murderefs dead,
The pitying manes fure had stop'd my hand,
Nor would have wifh'd for his own life again.
Redeem'd by guilt, fo horrid in a fon.
Now wipe away thy tears, lamenting maid; Though we 're both wretched, tears are fhed in vain ; And when thou feeft again my faltering reason,
Be ready thou to rule my broken fense,
And comfort my affliction-And when thou
Shalt fink beneath thy preffing woes, I'll strive
By foothing words to mitigate thy forrows.
Such offices become our fond affection.
But now, retiring to thy own apartment, Let gentle flumber clofe thy wakeful eyes; Then rife refresh'd; anoint thy wearied limbs, And with due nourishment recruit thy spirits. Such ceafelefs watchings will exhauft thy ftrength, And make thy languid life a burden to thee. Thou feeft, all other friends are fled; thou art My only folace in this dire affliction.
Should't thou forfake me too, I'm loft indeed.
O no! thy fifter never will forfake thee;
Nor only will I live, but die with thee;
What joy could life afford a wretched woman,
Bereft of father, brother, every friend ?—
But if you fo command, I will retire;
In the mean while, compofe thy felf to reft,
Reclin'd upon thy couch; nor let vain terrors
Rouze thee again-Thy own upbraiding conscience
Is the revengeful fiend, that haunts thy breast!
THE LORD CHANCELLOR PARKER.
S father Thames pours out his plenteous urn
O'er common tracts, with speed his waters flow;
But where fome beauteous palace does adorn
His banks, the river seems to move more flow;
As if he ftopp'd awhile, with confcious pride,
Nor to the ocean would purfue his race,
Till he reflect its glories in his tide,
And call the water-nymphs around to gaze.
So in Time's common flood the huddled throng
Of months and hours unheeded pafs away,
Unless fome general good our joy prolong,
And mark the moments of fome feftal day.
Not fair July, though Plenty clothe his fields,
Though gulden funs make all his mornings fmile,
Can boaft of aught that fuch a triumph yields,
As that he gave a Parker to our ifle.
Hail happy month! fecure of lafting fame!
Doubly diftinguish'd through the circling year:
In Rome a hero gave thee first thy name;
A patriot's birth makes thee to Britain dear.
XIVth OLYMPICK OF PINDAR.
E heavenly Graces, who prefide
O'er Minyæa's happy foil, that breeds,
Swift for the race, the fairest steeds ;
And rule the land, where with a gentle tide
Your lov'd Cephifian waters glide!
Το you Orchomenus's towers belong,
Then hear, ye goddeffes, and aid the fong.
Whatever honours fhine below,
Whatever gifts can move delight,
Or footh the ravish'd foul, or charm the fight,
To you their power of pleasing owe.
Fame, beauty, wisdom, you bestow;
Nor will the gods the facred banquet own,
Nor on the Chorus look propitious down,
If you your prefence have deny'd,
To rule the banquet, and the Chorus guide.
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