Imágenes de página

Though now debarr'd of each domeftic tear;

Unknown, forgot, I meet the fatal blow; There many a friend shall grace my woeful bier, And many a figh fhall rife, and tear fhall flow. I fpoke, nor fate forbore his trembling spoil; Some vernal mourner lent his careless aid; And foon they bore me to my native soil,

Where my fond parents dear remains were laid. 'Twas then the youths, from every plain and grove, Adorn'd with mournful verfe thy Silvia's bier; 'Twas then the nymphs their votive garlands wove, And ftrew'd the fragrance of the youthful year.

But why, alas! the tender fcene display?

Could Damon's foot the pious path decline?
Ah no! 'twas Damon first attun'd his lay,
And fure no fonnet was fo dear as thine.
Thus was I bofom'd in the peaceful grave;
My placid ghoft no longer wept its doom;
When favage robbers every fanction brave,
And with outrageous guilt defraud the tomb!
Shall my poor corfe, from hoftile realms convey'd,
Lofe the cheap portion of my native fands?
Or, in my kindred's dear embraces laid,

Mourn the vile ravage of barbarian hands?
Say, would thy breaft no death-like torture feel,
To fee my limbs the felon's gripe obey?
To fee them gafh'd beneath the daring steel?
To crowds a spectre, and to dogs a pray?


If Paan's fons these horrid rites require,
If health's fair science be by these refin'd,
Let guilty convicts, for their use, expire;

And let their breathlefs corfe avail mankind.
Yet hard it feems, when guilt's last fine is paid,
To see the victim's corfe deny'd repose!
Now, more fevere! the poor offenceless maid
Dreads the dire outrage of inhuman foes.

Where is the faith of ancient pagans fled ?
Where the fond care the wandering manes claim?
Nature, instinctive, cries, Protect the dead,
And facred be their afhes, and their fame:
Arife, dear youth! ev'n now the danger calls;
Ev'n now the villain fnuffs his wonted prey;
See! fee! I lead thee to yon' facred walls-
Oh! fly to chase these human wolves away."


[blocks in formation]

Reflections fuggested by his fituation.

ORN near the fcene for Kenelm's fate renown'd I take my plaintive reed, and range the grove, And raise my lay, and bid the rocks refound The favage force of empire, and of love. Faft by the centre of yon' various wild, Where spreading oaks embower a Gothic fane; ́Kendrida's arts a brother's youth beguil'd; There nature urg'd her tendereft pleas in vain.

[blocks in formation]

Soft o'er his birth, and o'er his infant hours,
Th' ambitious maid could every care employ;
Then with affiduous fondness cropt the flowers,
To deck the cradle of the princely boy?
But foon the bofom's pleafing calm is flown;
Love fires her breaft; the fultry paffions rife;
A favour'd lover feeks the Mercian throne,

And views her Kenelm with a rival's eyes.
How kind were fortune, ah! how just were fate,
Would fate or fortune Mercia's heir remove!
How fweet to revel on the couch of ftate!
To crown at once her lover and her love!
See, garnish'd for the chace, the fraudful maid
To thefe lone hills direct his devious way;
The youth all prone the fifter guide obey'd,
Ill-fated youth! himself the destin'd prey.
But now, nor fhaggy hill, nor pathless plain,
Forms the lone refuge of the sylvan game;
Since Lyttelton has crown'd the fweet domain
With fofter pleasures, and with fairer fame.
Where the rough bowman urg'd his headlong steed,
Immortal bards, a polifh'd race, retire;

And where hoarse scrcam'd the strepent horn, fucceed The melting graces of no vulgar lyre.

See Thomson loitering near fome limpid well,

For Britain's friend the verdant wreath prepare! Or, ftudious of revolving feafons, tell,

How peerlefs Lucia made all feasons fair!


See *

*** from civic garlands fly,

And in these groves indulge his tuneful vein! Or from yon' fummit, with a guardian's eye, Obferve how freedom's hand attires the plain! Here Pope! ah never must that towering mind To his lov'd haunts, or dearer friend, return? What art! what friendships! oh! what fame refign'd! -In yonder glade I trace his mournful urn. Where is the breast can rage or hate retain,

And these glad streams and smiling lawns behold? Where is the breast can hear the woodland strain, And think fair freedom well exchang'd for gold? Through these soft shades delighted let me ftray,

While o'er my head forgotten funs descend! Through these dear valleys bend my cafual way,

Till setting life a total fhade extend !

Here far from courts, and void of pompous cares, I'll mufe how much I owe mine humbler fate: Or fhrink to find, how much ambition dares,

To fhine in anguish, and to grieve in state!

Canft thou, O fun! that spotless throne difclofe,

Where her bold arm has left no fanguine stain? Where, fhew me where, the lineal sceptre glows, Pure, as the fimple crook that rules the plain?

Tremendous pomp! where hate, distrust, and fear,
In kindred bofoms folve the focial tie;

There not the parent fmile is half fincere ;
Nor void of art the confort's melting eye.

[blocks in formation]

There with the friendly with, the kindly flame,
No face is brighten'd, and no bosoms beat;
Youth, manhood, age, avow one fordid aim,
And ev'n the beardless lip affays deceit.

There coward rumours walk their murderous round;
The glance, that more than rural blame instills;
Whispers, that ting'd with friendship doubly wound,
Pity that injures, and concern that kills.

Their anger whets, but love can ne'er engage ;
Careffing brothers part but to revile;

There all men smile, and prudence warns the wife,
To dread the fatal ftroke of all that finile.

There all her rivals! fifter, fon, and fire,
With horrid purpose hug deftructive arms;
There foft-ey'd maids in murderous plots conspire,
And scorn the gentler mischief of their charmis.
Let fervile minds one endless watch endure;

Day, night, nor hour, their anxious guard refign;
But lay me, fate! on flowery banks, secure,
Though my whole foul be, like my limbs, fupine,
Yes, may my tongue disdain a vaffal's care;
My lyre refound no proftituted lay;

More warm to merit, more elate to wear

The cap of-freedom, than the crown of bay.
Sooth'd by the murmurs of my pebbled flood,
I wish it not o'er golden fands to flow;
Chear'd by the verdure of my spiral wood,
I fcorn the quarry, where no fhrub can grow.


« AnteriorContinuar »