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HE happy Mufe, to this high scene preferrd,
Hereafter shall in loftier strains be heard : And, foaring to transcend her usual theme, Shall sing of virtue and heroic fame. No longer shall she toil upon the stage, And fruitless war with vice and folly wage ; No more in mean disguise she shall appear, And shapes she would reform be forc'd to wear : While ignorance and malice join to blame, And break the mirror that reflects their shame. Henceforth he shall pursue a nobler task, Shew her bright virgin face, and fcorn the Satyr's mask. Happy her future days! which are design'd Alone to paint the beauties of the mind. By just originals to draw with care, And copy
from the court a faultless fair :
While this design her eager thoughts pursues,
From that attempt the conscious Muie retires,
Hence she reflects upon the genial ray
Then, Britain, then thy dawn of bliss begun :
Inscribed to the Right Hon. the Lord GODOLPHIN,
Lord High-Treasurer of England,
Qualis populeâ mærens Philomela sub umbrâ
VIRG. Geor. 4.
WAS at the time, when new-returning light
With welcome rays begins to chear the sight;
'Twas then that Amaryllis, heavenly fair,
Forsook her myrtle bower and rosy bed,
“ Hear me," she cried, " ye nymphs and sylvan gods, “ Inhabitants of these once-lov'd abodes; “ Hear my distress, and lend a pitying car, “ Hear my complaint---you would not ear my prayer; “ The loss which you prevented not, deplore, • And mourn with me Amyntas now no more.
“ Have I not cause, ye cruel powers, to mourn ? # Lives there like me another wretch forlorn;
“ Tell me, thou sun that round the world doft shine, “ Hast thou beheld another lofs like mine? “ Ye winds, who on your wings fad accents bear, “And catch the sounds of sorrow and despair, “ Tell me if e'er your tender pinions bore “ Such weight of woe, such deadly sighs, before ?
Tell me, thou earth, on whose wide-fpreading base “ The wretched load is laid of human race, “ Doft thou not feel thyself with me opprest? “ Lie all the dead fo heavy on thy breast ? " When hoary winter on thy shrinking head “ His icy, cold, depressing hand has laid, “ Haft thou not felt less chillness in thy veins ? “ Do I not pierce thee with more freezing pains ? “ But why to thee do I relate my woe, “ Thou cruel earth, my most remorseless foe, “ Within whofe darksome womb the grave is made, “ Where all my joys are with Amyntas laid ? “What is ’t to me, though on thy naked head “ Eternal winter should his horror shed, “ Though all thy nerves are numb’d with endless frost, " And all thy hopes of future spring were lost? “ To me what comfort can the spring afford ? “ Can my Amyntas be with spring restor'd ? “ Can all the rains that fall from weeping skies, “ Unlock the tomb where my Amyntas lies ?
No, never ! never !---Say then, rigid earth, "What is to me thy everlasting dearth?
Though never flower again its head should rear, “Though never tree again should blossom bear,