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By old Miletus * who fo long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven fong :
By all you taught the Tuscan maids,
In chang'd Italia's modern fhades:
By him t, whose Knight's diftinguish'd name
Refind a nation's luft of fame;.
Whose tales even now, with echoes sweet,
Caftilia's Moorish hills repeat:
Or him I, whom Seine's blue nymphs deplorez,
In watchet weeds on Gallia's shore,
Who drew the sad Sicilian maid,
By virtues in her fire betray'd :

O Nature boon, from whom proceed
Each forceful thought, each prompted deed';
If but from thee I hope to feel,
Qo all my heart imprint thy seal !

* Alluding to the Milegan tales, some of the earliest soa


+ Cervantes.

| Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in Paris in the year 1745.

Let fome retreating Cynic find
Those oft-turn'd scrolls I leave behind,
The Sports and I this hour agree,
To rove thy scene-full world with thee!





7 Hen Music, heavenly maid, was young,

While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Poffeft beyond the Muse's painting ;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb’d, delighted, rais'd, refin’d.
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir’d,
Filld with fury, rapt, inspird,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound,
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

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First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd he knew not why,

Even at the found himself had made.

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Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own’d his secret Atings, In one rude clash he ftruck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair

Low sullen sounds his grief beguild, A solemn, strange, and mingled air,

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure ?

Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,

And bad the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo ftill thro' all the song ;


And where her sweetest theme the chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted fmild, and wav'd her golden


And longer had the sung, -but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose,
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,

And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blaft so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe.

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;
And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his fide,

Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet ftill he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each train'd ball of fight feem'd bursting from his head,


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