Oh! loft Ophelia fimoothly flow'd the day,
To feel his music with my flames agree!
To taste the beauties of his melting lay,

To tafte, and fancy it was dear to thee.
When, for his tomb, with each revolving year,
I fteal the mufk-rofe from the fcented brake,
I ftrew my cowflips, and I pay my tear,
I'll add the myrtle for Ophelia's fake.

Shivering beneath a leaflefs 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 fong. "Adieu my flocks, he faid! my wonted care, By funny mountain, or by verdant fhore! May some more happy hand your fold prepare,

And may you need your Collin's crook no more!
And you, ye fhepherds! lead my gentle sheep;
To breezy hills, or leafy fhelters lead;
But if the fky with fhowers inceffant weep,
Avoid the putrid moisture of the mead.

Where the wild thyme perfumes the purpled heath,
Long loitering there your fleecy tribes extend-
But what avail the maxims I bequeath?
The fruitless gift of an officious friend!
Ah! what avails the timorous lambs to guard,
Though nightly cares, with daily labours, join?

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;
For this I led them from the pointed thorn?
For this I bath'd them in the lucid wave?
Ah heedlefs Albion! too benignly prone

Thy blood to lavish, and thy wealth resign!
Shall every other virtue grace thy throne,
But quick-ey'd prudence never yet be thine ?
From the fair natives of this peerless hill

Thou gav'st 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 stray; Far from their dams their native guardians far! Where the foft shepherd, all the livelong day, Chaunts his proud mistress to his hoarfe guittar. But Albion's youth her native fleece defpife; Unmov'd they hear the pining fhepherd's moan; In filky folds each nervous limb difguife, Allur'd by every treasure, but their own. Oft have I hurry'd down the rocky steep, Anxious, to fee the wintry tempeft drive; Preferve, faid I, preferve your fleece, my sheep! Ere long will Phillis, will my love arrive. Ere long fhe came: ah! woe is me, she came! Rob'd in the Gallic loom's extraneous twine: For gifts like thefe they give their fpotlefs fame, Refign their bloom, their innocence refign.

53

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 drefs, and beauty's are the fame ? Will no fam'd chief fupport this generous maid? Once more the patriot's arduous path resume? And, comely from his native plains array'd, Speak future glory to the British loom ? What power unfeen my ravish'd fancy fires? I pierce the dreary fhade of future days; Sure 'tis the genius of the land inspires, To breath my latest breath in * * *'s praise. 's praise suffice, How gently should my dying limbs repose!

O might my breath for * * *

O might his future glory bless mine eyes,

My ravish'd eyes! how calmly would they close!

** was born to fpread the general joy;
By virtue rapt, by party uncontroul'd;
Britons for Britain fhall the crook employ;
Britons for Britain's glory fhear the fold.”

ELE GY XIX.

Written in fpring 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 display'd my wonted loves,
The penfive pleasure and the tender pain,
The fordid Alpheus hurry'd through my groves;
Yet ftop'd to vent the dictates of difdain.
He glanc'd contemptuous o'er my ruin'd fold;
He blam'd the graces of my favourite bower;
My breaft, unfully'd by the luft of gold;
My time, unlavish'd in pursuit of power.
Yes, Alpheus! fly the purer paths of fate

Abjure these fcenes from venal passions free ;
Know, in this grove, I vow'd perpetual hate,
War, endless war, with lucre and with thee.
Here nobly zealous, in my youthful hours,
I dreft an altar to Thalia's name:

Here, as I crown'd the verdant fhrine with flowers,
Soft on my labours ftole the finiling dame.
Damon, she cry'd, if pleas'd with honest praise,
Thou court fuccefs by virtue or by fong,
Fly the falfe dictates of the venal race;
Fly the grofs accents of the venal tongue.

Swear that no lucre fhall thy zeal betray;

Swerve not thy foot with fortune's votaries more; Brand thou their lives, and brand their lifeless day— The winning phantom urg'd me, and I fwore.

Forth from the ruftic altar fwift I stray'd,
"Aid my firm purpofe, ye celeftial powers!
Aid me to quell the fordid breaft, I faid;
And threw my javelin tow'rds their hostile towers *.

* A Roman ceremony in declaring war,

Think not regretful I furvey the deed;
Or added years no more the zeal allow ;
Still, ftill obfervant to the grove I speed,

The fhrine embellish, and repeat the vow.
Sworn from his cradle Rome's relentless foe,
Such generous hate the Punic champion * bore;
Thy lake, O Thrafimene! beheld it glow,

And Canna's walls, and Trebia's crimson fhore.
But let grave annals paint the warrior's fame;
Fair fhine his arms in hiftory enroll❜d;
Whilft humbler lyres his civil worth proclaim,
His nobler hate of avarice and gold.-
Now Punic pride its final eve furvey'd ;
Its hofts exhaufted, and its fleets on fire :
Patient the victor's lurid frown obey'd,

And faw th' unwilling elephants retire.
But when their gold deprefs'd the yielding scale,
Their gold in pyramidic plenty pil'd,

He faw th' unutterable grief prevail;

He saw their tears, and in his fury smil'd.

Think not, he cry'd, ye view the smiles of cafe,
Or this firm breast disclaims a patriot's pain;
I fmile, but from a foul eftrang'd to peace,
Frantic with grief, delirious with disdain !
But were it cordial, this detefted smile,
Seems it lefs timely than the grief ye show?
O fons of Carthage! grant me to revile
The fordid source of your indecent woe!