IN IMITATION OF THE FRENCH.
N thofe cold climates, where the fun appears
Unwillingly, and hides his face in tears,
A difmal vale lies in a defert ifle
On which indulgent heaven did never smile.
There a thick grove of aged cypress trees,
Which none without an awful horror fees,
Into its wither'd arms, depriv'd of leaves,
Whole flocks of ill-prefaging birds receives:
Poifons are all the plants that foil will bear,
And winter is the only feafon there :
Millions of graves o'erspread the spacious field,
And fprings of blood a thousand rivers yield;
Whofe ftreams, opprefs'd with carcaffes and bones,
Inftead of gentle murmurs, pour forth groans.
Within this vale a famous temple stands,
Old as the world itself, which it commands;
Round is its figure, and four iron gates
Divide mankind, by order of the Fates:
Thither in crowds come to one common grave
The young, the old, the monarch, and the slave.
Old age and pains, thofe evils man deplores,
Are rigid keepers of th' eternal doors;
All clad in mournful blacks, which fadly load
The facred walls of this obfcure abode;
And tapers, of a pitchy fubftance made,
With clouds of smoke increase the dismal shade.
A monfter void of reafon and of fight
The goddess is, who fways this realm of night;
Her power extends o'er all things that have breath,
A cruel tyrant, and her name is Death.
The fairest object of our wondering eyes
Was newly offer'd up her facrifice;
Th' adjoining places where the altar stood,
Yet blufhing with the fair Almeria's blood.
When griev'd Orontes, whose unhappy flame
Is known to all who e'er converse with Fame,
His mind poffefs'd by Fury and Despair,
Within the facred temple made this prayer:
Great Deity! who in thy hands dost bear
That iron fceptre which poor mortals fear;
Who, wanting eyes thyself, refpecteft none,
And neither spar'ft the laurel nor the crown!
O thou, whom all mankind in vain withstand,
Each of whose blood must one day stain thy hand!
O thou, who every eye that sees the light
Closest for ever in the shades of night!
Goddefs, attend, and hearken to my grief,
To which thy power alone can give relief.
Alas! I ask not to defer my fate,
But with my hapless life a fhorter date;
And that the earth would in its bowels hide
A wretch, whom heaven invades on every fide:
That from the fight of day I could remove,
And might have nothing left me but my love.
Thou only comforter of minds opprest,
The port where wearied fpirits are at reft;
Conductor to Elyfium, take my life,
My breast I offer to thy facred knife;
So just a grace refuse not, nor despise
A willing, though a worthless facrifice.
Others (their frail and mortal state forgot)
Before thy altars are not to be brought
Without conftraint; the noise of dying rage,
Heaps of the flain of every sex and age,
The blade all reeking in the gore it shed,
With fever'd heads and arms confus'dly spread;
The rapid flames of a perpetual fire,
The groans of wretches ready to expire :
This tragic scene in terror makes them live,
Till that is forc'd which they should freely give;
Yielding unwillingly what heaven will have,
Their fears eclipfe the glory of their grave:
Before thy face they make indecent moan,
And feel a hundred deaths in fearing one :
Thy flame becomes unhallow'd in their breast,
And he a murderer who was a priest.
But against me thy ftrongest forces call,
And on my head let all the tempeft fall;
No mean retreat shall any weaknefs show,
But calmly I'll expect the fatal blow;
My limbs not trembling, in my mind no fear,
Plaints in my mouth, nor in my eyes a tear.
Think not that Time, our wonted fure relief,
That univerfal cure for every grief,
Whofe aid fo many lovers oft' have found,
With like fuccefs can never heal my wound:
Too weak the power of nature or of art,
Nothing but death can eafe a broken heart:
And that thou may'ft behold my helpless state,
Learn the extremest rigour of my fate.
Amidft th' innumerable beauteous train,
Paris, the queen of cities, does contain,
(The fairest town, the largest, and the beft)
The fair Almeria fhin'd above the reft:
From her bright eyes to feel a hopeless flame,
Was of our youth the most ambitious aim;
Her chains were marks of honour to the brave,
She made a prince whene'er the made a flave.
Love, under whose tyrannic power I groan,
Shew'd me this beauty ere 'twas fully blown;
Her timorous charms, and her unpractis'd look,
Their first affurance from my conquest took;
By wounding me, the learn'd the fatal art,
And the first figh fhe had was from my heart :
My eyes, with tears moistening her fnowy arms,
Render'd the tribute owing to her charms.
But, as I foonest of all mortals paid
My vows, and to her beauty altars made;
So, among all those slaves that figh'd in vain,
She thought me only worthy of my chain :
Love's heavy burden my fubmiffive heart
Endur'd not long, before the bore her part;
My violent flame melted her frozen breast,
And in foft fighs her pity the exprefs'd;
Her gentle voice allay'd my raging pains,
And her fair hands fuftain'd me in my chains;
Ev'n tears of pity waited on my moan,
And tender looks were caft on me alone.
My hopes and dangers were lefs mine than hers,
Those fill'd her foul with joys, and these with fears;
Our hearts, united, had the fame defires,
And both alike burn'd with impatient fires.
Too faithful Memory! I give thee leave
Thy wretched mafter kindly to deceive;
Oh, make me not possessor of her charms,
Let me not find her languish in my arms;
Past joys are now my fancy's mournful themes;
Make all my happy nights appear but dreams :
Let not fuch blifs before my eyes be brought,
O hide those scenes from my tormenting thought;
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