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Thou, the friend of man aflign'd,

With balmy hands his wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic woe ;
When firft Distress, with dagger keen,
Broke forth to waste his deftin'd scene,

His wild unsated foe!

By Pella's Bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,


humble. rite : Long, Pity, let the nations view Thy sky-worn robes of tendereft blue,

And eyes of dewy light!

But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Iliffus' diftant fide,


Deserted stream, and mute?
Wild Arun t too has heard thy ftrains,
And Echo, 'midit my native plains,

Been sooth'd by Pity's lute.

There first the wren thy myrtles shed
On gentleft Otway's infant head,

To him thy cell was shewn ;
And while he fung the female heart,
With youth's soft notes onspoil'd by art,

Thy turtles mix'd their own.

Come, Pity, come, by fancy's aid,
Ev'n now my thoughts, relenting maid,

Thy temple's pride defign:
Its southern fite, its truth compleat
Shall raise a wild enthufiaft heat,

In all who view the shrine.

There Picture's toil shall well relate,
How chance, or hard involving fate

+ A river in Suflex.


O'er mortal bliss prevail :
The buskind Muse shall near her stand,
And fighing prompt her tender hand,

With each disastrous tale.

There let me oft, retir'd by day,
In dreams of paffion melt away,

Allow'd with thee to dwell :
There waste the mournful lamp of night,
Till, Virgin, thou again delight

To hear a British shell !

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