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Enamour’d of her charms I stray'd :
And as I rov'd the woods among,
Her praise in lisping numbers sung; ar
Nor will I now resign my heart,
A captive to her rival art. – 30
Far from the pageant scenes of pride,
She still my careless steps shall guide,
whetherby Contemplation led,
The rich romantic wilds I tread, or
where Nature, for her pupil man, ... ****
Has sketch'd out many a noble plan;
Or whether from yon wood-crown'd brow,
I view the lovely vale below.
For when, with more than common care,
Nature had sketch'd her landscape there, 4,
Her Conway caught the fair design,
And soften’d ev'ry harsher line;
In pleasing lights each object plac'd,
And heighten’d all the piece with taste.
O Conway! whilst the public voice
Applauds our Sov’reign's well weigh’d choice,
Fain would my patriot Muse proclaim
The Statesman's and the Soldier's fame:
And bind immortal on thy brow
The civic crown and laurel bough. ya or-
But tho’ unskill'd to join the choir,
Who aptly tune the courtly lyre,
Though with the vassals of thy state,
I never at thy levee wait,

Yet be it oft my happier lot,

To meet thee in this rural cot,

To see thee here thy mind unbend,

And quit the Statesman for the Friend ?

Whilst smiles unbought, and void of art,

Spring genuine from the social heart. 36 *

Happy the Muse, which here retir’d, By gratitude like mine inspir'd; Dupe to no party, loves to pay To worth like thine, her grateful lay: And in no venal verse commend, - CT The Man of Taste, and Nature’s friend.

EPISTLE XIV.

w RITT EN FRom
LISBON.

B Y
WILLIAM julius MICKLE.

While you, my Friend, from lowring wintery plains, Now pale with snows, now black with drizzling rains, From leafless woodlands, and dishonor’d bowers Mantled by gloomy mists, or lash'd by showers Of hollow moan, while not a struggling beam Steals from the Sun to play on Isis’ stream; While from these scenes by England’s winter spread Swift to the cheerful hearth your steps are led, Pleas'd from the threatening tempest to retire And join the circle round the social fire; -- / a In other clime through sun-bask’d scenes I stray, As the fair landscape leads my thoughtful way, As upland path, oft winding bids me rove Where orange bowers invite, or olive grove, No sullen phantoms brooding o'er my breast, The genial influence of the clime I taste; Yet still regardful of my native shore, In every scene, my roaming eyes explore,

Whate'er its aspect, still, by memory brought,
My fading country rushes on my thought. 20
While now perhaps the classic page you turn,
And warm'd with honest indignation burn,
*Till hopeless, sicklied by the climate's gloom,
Your generous fears call forth Britannia's doom,
What hostile spears her sacred lawns invade,
By friends deserted, by her chiefs betray'd, T
Low fall’n and vanquish’d 1–I, with mind serene
As Lisboa's sky, yet pensive as the scene
Around, and pensive seems the scene to me,
From other ills my country's fate foresee. 3.

Not from the hands that wield Iberia's spear, Not from the hands that Gaul's proud thunders bear, Northose that turn on Albion's breast the sword Beat down of late by Albion when it gored Their own, who impious doom their parent's fall Beneath the world’s great foe th’ insidious Gaul; Yes, not from these the immedicable wound Of Albion—Other is the bane profound Destined alone to touch her mortal part; Herself is sick and poisoned at the heart. As

O'er Tago's banks where'er I roll mine eyes,
The gallant deeds of antient days arise;
The scenes the Lusian Muses fond display'd
Before me oft, as oft at eve I stray'd

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By Isis' hallowed stream. Oft now the strand
Where Gama march'd his death-devoted band,
While Lisboa awed with horror saw him spread
The daring sails that first to India led;
And oft Almada’s castled steep inspires
The pensive Muse's visionary fires; 36
Almada Hill to English Memory dear,
While shades of English heroes wander here

To ancient English valor sacred still
Remains, and ever shall, Almada Hill;
The hill and lawns to English valor given
What time the Arab Moons from Spain were driven,
Before the banners of the Cross subdued,
When Lisboa’s towers were bathed in Moorish blood

By Gloster’s lance.—Romantic days that yield

Of gallant deeds a wide luxuriant field – 6e
Dear to the Muse that loves the fairy plains
Where ancient honor wild and ardent reigns.

Where high o'er Tago's flood Almada lowers,
Amid the solemn pomp of mouldering towers
Supinely seated, wide and far around .
My eye delighted wanders.—Here the bound
Of fair Europa o'er the Ocean rears
Its western edge; where dimly disappears
The Atlantic wave, the slow descending day
Mild beaming pours serene the gentle ray 7,
Of Lusitania's winter, silvering o'er .
The tower-like summits of the mountain shore;

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