Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

They spoke of Fortune, as some doubtful dame, That sway'd the natives of a distant sphere; From luere's vagrant sous had learnt her fame, But never wish'd to place her banners here. Here youth's free spirit, innocently gay,

Enjoy'd the most that innocence can give,
Those wholesome sweets that border virtue's way,
Those cooling fruits that we may taste and live.
Their board no strange ambiguous viand bore;
From their own streams their choicer fare they
To lure the scaly glutton to the shore, [drew,

The sole deceit their artless bosom knew!
Sincere themselves, ah too secure to find
The common bosom, like our own, sincere!
Tis its own guilt alarms the jealous mind;

"Tis her own poison bids the viper fear.
Sketch'd on the lattice of th' adjacent fane,
Their suppliant busts implore the reader's prayer:
Ah gentle souls! enjoy your blissful reign,

And let frail mortals claim your guardian care. For sure, to blissful realms the souls are flown, That never flatter'd, injur'd, censur'd, strove; The friends of science! music, all their own;

Music, the voice of virtue and of love! The journeying peasant, through the secret shade, Heard their soft lyres engage his listening ear; And haply deem'd some courteous angel play'd;

No angel play'd—but might with transport hear. For these the sounds that chase unholy strife!

Solve envy's charm, ambition's wretch release! Raise him to spurn the radiant ills of life:

To pity pomp, to be content with peace. Farewel, pure spirits! vain the praise we give, The praise you sought from lips angelic flows; Farewel! the virtues which deserve to live,

Deserve an ampler bliss than life bestows,
Last of his race, Palemon, now no more
The modest merit of his line display'd;
Then pious Hugh Vigornia's mitre wore-
Soft sleep the dust of each deserving shade!

ELEGY XVI.

He suggests the advantages of birth to a person of merit, and the folly of a superciliousness that is built upon that sole foundation.

WHEN Genius grac'd with lineal splendour glows,
When Title shines with ambient virtues crown'd,
Like some fair almond's flowery pomp it shows;
The pride, the perfume of the regions round.
Then learn, ye fair! to soften splendour's ray;
Endure the swain, the youth of low degree;
Let meekness join'd its temperate beam display;
'Tis the mild verdure that endears the tree.
Pity the sandal'd swain, the shepherd's boy;
He sighs to brighten a neglected name;
Foe to the dull appulse of vulgar joy,

He mourns his lot; he wishes, merits fame.
In vain to groves and pathless vales we fly;
Ambition there the bowery haunt invades :
Fame's awful rays fatigue the courtier's eye,

But gleam still lovely thro' the checquer'd shades.

Vainly, to guard from Love's unequal chain,
Has Fortune rear'd us in the rural grove;
Should ****'s eyes illume the desert plain,
Een I may wonder, and e'en I must love.
Nor unregarded sighs the lowly hind;
Though you contemn, the gods respect his vow;
Vindictive rage awaits the scornful mind,
And vengeance, too severe, the gods allow.
On Sarum's plain I met a wandering fair;
The look of sorrow, lovely still she bore:
Loose flow'd the soft redundance of her hair,
And, on her brow, a flowery wreath she wore.
Oft stooping as she stray'd, she cull'd the pride
Of every plain; she pillag'd every grove!
The fading chaplet daily she supply'd,
And still her hand some various garland wove.
Erroneous fancy shap'd her wild attire;

From Bethlem's walls the poor lymphatic stray'd; Seem'd with her air her accent to conspire,

When, as wild fancy taught her, thus she said: "Hear me, dear youth! oh hear a hapless maid, Sprung from the scepter'd line of ancient kings! Scorn'd by the world, I ask thy tender aid;

Thy gentle voice shall whisper kinder things. "The world is frantic-fly the race profaneNor I, nor you, shall its compassion move; Come, friendly let us wander, and complain,

And tell me, shepherd! hast thou seen my love? "My love is young-but other loves are young; And other loves are fair, and so is mine; An air divine discloses whence he sprung; He is my love, who boasts that air divine. "No vulgar Damon robs me of my rest, Ianthe listens to no vulgar vow;

A prince, from gods descended, fires her breast;
A brilliant crown distinguishes his brow.
"What, shall I stain the glories of my race? [beam?
More clear, more lovely bright than Hesper's
The porcelain pure with vulgar dirt debase?

66

Or mix with puddle the pellucid stream?

See through these veins the sapphire current shine! 'Twas Jove's own nectar gave th' etherial húe: Can base plebeian forins contend with mine!

Display the lovely white, or match the blue? "The painter strove to trace its azure ray;

He chang'd his colours, and in vain he strove ; He frown'd;-I, smiling, view'd the faint essay; Poor youth! he little knew it flow'd from Jove. "Pitying his toil, the wondrous truth I told;

How amorous Jove trepann'd a mortal fair; How through the race the generous current roll'd, And mocks the poet's art, and painter's care. "Yes, from the gods, from earliest Saturn, sprung Our sacred race; through demigods convey'd; And he, ally'd to Phoebus, ever young,

My god-like boy, must wed their duteous maid. "Oft when a mortal vow profanes my ears, My sire's dread fury murmurs through the sky; And should I yield-his instant rage appears, He darts th' uplifted vengeance—and I die. "Have you not heard unwonted thunders roll! Have you not seen more horrid lightnings glare! 'Twas then a vulgar love ensnar'd my soul : 'Twas then I hardly scap'd the fatal snare.

"'T was then a peasant pour'd his amorous vow, All as I listen'd to his vulgar strain ;— Yet such his beauty-would my birth allow,

Dear were the youth, and blissful were the plain. "But oh! I faint! why wastes my vernal bloom, In fruitless searches ever doom'd to rove? My nightly dreams the toilsome path resume And I shall die-before I find my love. "When last I slept, methought my ravish'd eye On distant heaths his radiant form survey'd: Though night's thick clouds encompass'd all the sky, The gems that bound his brow dispell'd the shade. "O how this bosom kindled at the sight!

Led by their beams I urg'd the pleasing chase! Till, on a sudden, these withheld their lightAll, all things envy the sublime embrace. "But now no more-behind the distant grove Wanders my destin'd youth, and chides my stay: See, see, he grasps the steel-forbear, my love— Ianthe comes; thy princess hastes away." Scornful she spoke, and heedless of reply The lovely maniac bounded o'er the plain; The piteous victim of an angry sky! Ah me! the victim of her proud disdain!

ELEGY XVII.

He indulges the suggestions of spleen:
AN ELEGY TO THE WINDS.

Eole, namque tibi divûm pater atque hominum rex
Et mulcere dedit mentes et tollere vento. VIRG.
STERN monarch of the winds, admit my prayer!
A while thy fury check, thy storm confine!
No trivial blast impells the passive air,

But brews a tempest in a breast like mine.
What bands of black ideas spread their wings!
The peaceful regions of content invade!
With deadly poison taint the crystal springs!
With noisome vapour blast the verdant shade!
I know their leader, Spleen; and dread the sway
Of rigid Eurus, his detested sire;
Through one iny blossoms and my fruits decay;
Through one my pleasures and my hopes expire.
Like some pale stripling, when his icy way

Relenting yields beneath the noontide beam,
1 stand aghast; and chill'd with fear survey
How far I've tempted life's deceitful stream!
Where, by remorse impell'd, repuls'd by fears,
Shall wretched Fancy a retreat explore?
She flies the sad presage of coming years,

And, sorrowing, dwells on pleasures now no more!
Again with patrons and with friends she roves;
But friends and patrons never to return!
She sees the Nymphs, the Graces, and the Loves,
But sees them weeping o'er Lucinda's urn.
She visits, Isis! thy forsaken stream,
Oh ill forsaken for Baotian air!
She deems no flood reflects so bright a beam,
No reed so verdant, and no flowers so fair.
She dreams beneath thy sacred shades were peace,
Thy bays might e'en the civil storm repel;
Reviews thy social bliss, thy learned ease,

And with no cheerful accent cries, Farewel!

Farewel, with whom to these retreats I stray'd!
By youthful sports, by youthful toils ally'd!
Joyous we sojourn'd in thy circling shade,
And wept to find the paths of life divide.
She paints the progress of my rival's vow;
Sees every Muse a partial ear incline;
Binds with luxuriant bays his favour'd brow,
Nor yields the refuse of his wreath to mine.
She bids the flattering mirror, form'd to please,
Now blast my hope, now vindicate despair;
Bids my fond verse the love-sick parley cease;
Accuse my rigid fate, acquit my fair.
Where circling rocks defend some pathless vale,
Superfluous mortal, let me ever rove!
Alas! there Echo will repeat the tale-

Where shall I find the silent scenes I love? Fain would I mourn my luckless fate alone; Forbid to please, yet fated to admire; Away, my friends! my sorrows are my own! Why should I breathe around my sick desire? Bear me, ye winds, indulgent to my pains,

Near some sad ruin's ghastly shade to dwell! There let me fondly eye the rude remains,

And from the mouldering refuse build my cell! Genius of Rome! thy prostrate pomp display! Trace every dismal proof of Fortune's power; Let me the wreck of theatres survey,

Or pensive sit beneath some nodding tower. Or where some duct, by rolling seasons worn,

Convey'd pure streams to Rome's imperial wall, Near the wide breach in silence let me mourn; Or tune my dirges to the water's fall. Genius of Carthage! paint thy ruin'd pride; Towers, arches, fanes, in wild confusion strown; Let banish'd Marius, lowering by thy side, Compare thy fickle fortunes with his own. Ah no! thou monarch of the storms! forbear! My trembling nerves abhor thy rude control; And scarce a pleasing twilight soothes my care, Ere one vast deathlike darkness shocks my soul. Forbear thy rage-on no perennial base

Is built frail Fear, or Hope's deceitful pile; My pains are fled-my joy resumes its place, Should the sky brighten, or Melissa smile.

[blocks in formation]

When, for his tomb, with each revolving year,
I steal the musk-rose from the scented brake,
I strew my cowslips, and I pay my tear,

I'll add the myrtle for Ophelia's sake.
Shivering beneath a leafless thorn he lay,

When Death's chill rigour seiz'd his flowing tongue;

The more I found his faultering notes decay,

The more prophetic truth sublim'd the song. "Adieu, my flocks :" he said! "my wonted care, By sunny mountain, or by verdant shore ! May some more happy hand your fold prepare,

And may you need your Colin's crook no more! "And you, ye shepherds! lead my gentle sheep; To breezy hills, or leafy shelters lead; But if the sky with showers incessant weep, Avoid the putrid moisture of the mead. "Where the wild thyme perfumes the purpled heath, Long loitering there your fleecy tribes extendBut 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 sloth obtain the rich reward,

If Gallia's craft the ponderous fleece purloin. "Was it for this, by constant vigils worn, I met the terrours of an early grave; For this I led them from the pointed thorn? For this I bath'd them in the lucid wave ? "Ah heedless 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 faithless 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 soft shepherd, all the livelong day,

Chants his proud mistress to his hoarse guitar. "But Albion's youth her native fleece despise; Unmov'd they hear the pining shepherd's moan; In silky folds each nervous limb disguise,

Allur'd by every treasure but their own. "Oft have I hurry'd down the rocky steep, Anxious to see the wintry tempest drive; 'Preserve,' said I, preserve your fleecy sheep! Ere long will Phillis, will my love arrive.' "Ere long she came : ah! woe is me, she came ! Rob'd in the Gallic loom's extraneous twine : For gifts like these they give their spotless fame, Resign their bloom, their innocence resign. "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 dress, and Beauty's, are the same? "Will no fam'd chief support 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 unseen my ravish'd fancy fires? I pierce the dreary shade of future days; Sure 't is the genius of the land inspires,

To breathe my latest breath in ***'s praise.

"O might my breath for ***'s praise suffice,
How gently should my dying limbs repose!
O might his future glory bless mine eyes,
My ravish'd eyes! how calmly would they close!
"*** was born to spread the general joy;
By virtue rapt, by party uncontrol'd;
Britons for Britain shall the crook employ;
Britons for Britain's glory shear the fold."

ELEGY XIX.

WRITTEN IN SPRING 1743.

AGAIN the labouring hind inverts the soil; Again the merchant ploughs the tumid wave: Another Spring renews the soldier's toil,

And finds me vacant in the rural cave. As the soft lyre display'd my wonted loves,

The pensive pleasure and the tender pain, The sordid Alpheus hurry'd through my groves; Yet stopp'd to vent the dictates of disdain. He glanc'd contemptuous o'er my ruin'd fold; He blam'd the graces of my favourite bower; My breast, unsully'd by the lust of gold;

My time, unlavish'd in pursuit of power. Yes, Alpheus! fly the purer paths of Fate; Abjure these scenes 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 drest an altar to Thalia's name : Here, as I crown'd the verdant shrine with flowers, Soft on my labours stole the smiling dame. “Damon,” she cry'd, "if pleas'd with honest praise, Thou court success by virtue or by song, Fly the false dictates of the venal race;

Fly the gross accents of the venal tongue. "Swear that no lucre shall 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 swore. Forth from the rustic altar swift I stray'd,

"Aid my firm purpose, ye celestial powers! Aid me to quell the sordid breast," I said; And threw my javelin tow'rds their hostile towers', Think not regretful I survey'd the deed;

Or added years no more the zeal allow ; Still, still observant to the grove I speed,

The shrine embellish, and repeat the vow. Sworn from his cradle Rome's relentless foe, Such generous hate the Punic champion 2 bore; Thy lake, O Thrasimene! beheld it glow,

And Cannæ's walls, and Trebia's crimson shore.
But let grave annals paint the warrior's fame;
Fair shine his arms in History enroll❜d;
Whilst humbler lyres his civil worth proclaim,
His nobler hate of avarice and gold.—
Now Punic pride its final eve survey'd ;

Its hosts exhausted, and its fleets on fire:
Patient the victor's lurid frown obey'd,
And saw th' unwilling elephants retire.

A Roman ceremony in declaring war. 2 Hannibal.

But when their gold depress'd the yielding scale,
Their gold in pyramidic plenty pil'd,
He saw th' unutterable grief prevail;

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

"Why am I ravish'd from my native strand?
What savage race protects this impious gain?
Shall foreign plagues infest this teeming land, [main?
And more than sea-born monsters plough the
Here the dire locust's horrid swarms prevail;›
Here the blue asps with livid poison swell;
Here the dry dipsa with his sinuous mail;--
Can we not here secure from Envy dwell?
"When the grim lion urg'd his cruel chace,

"Think not," he cry'd, "ye view the smiles of ease,"
Or this firm breast disclaims a patriot's pain;
I smile, but from a soul estrang'd to peace,
Frantic with grief, delirious with disdain!
"But were it cordial, this detested smile,
Seems it less timely than the grief ye show?
O sons of Carthage! grant me to revile

The sordid source of your indecent woe!
"Why weep ye now! ye saw with tearless eye
When your fleet perish'd on the Punic wave;
Where lurk'd the coward tear, the lazy sigh,
When Tyre's imperial state commenc'd a slave ?
"Tis past--OCarthage! vanquish'd! honour'd shade!
Go, the mean sorrows of thy sons deplore;
Had Freedom shar'd the vow to Fortune paid,

She ne'er, like Fortune, had forsook thy shore."
He ceas'd-abash'd the conscious audience hear;
Their pallid cheeks a crimson blush unfold;
Yet o'er that virtuous blush distreams a tear,
And, falling, moistens their abandon'd gold.

ELEGY XX.

He compares his humble fortune with the distress
of others; and his subjection to Delia, with the
miserable servitude of an African slave.
WHY droops this heart, with fancy'd woes forlorn,
Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky?
What pensive crowds, by ceaseless labours worn,
What myriads wish to be as blest as I !
What though my roofs devoid of pomp arise,
Nor tempt the proud to quit his destin'd way?
Nor costly art my flowery dales disguise,

Where only simple Friendship deigns to stray?
See the wild sons of Lapland's chill domain,
That scoop their couch beneath the drifted snows!
How void of hope they ken the frozen plain,
Where the sharp East for ever, ever blows!
Slave though I be, to Delia's eyes a slave,

My Delia's eyes endear the bands I wear; The sigh she causes well becomes the brave, The pang she causes, 'tis e'en bliss to bear. See the poor native quit the Libyan shores,

Ah! not in Love's delightful fetters bound!
No radiant smile his dying peace restores; [wound.
Nor Love, nor Fame, nor Friendship, heals his
Let vacant bards display their boasted woes,

Shall I the mockery of grief display?
No, let the Muse his piercing pangs disclose,
Who bleeds and weeps his sum of life away.
On the wild beach in mournful guise he stood,
Ere the shrill boatswain gave the hated sign;
He dropt a tear unseen into the flood;

He stole one secret moment, to repine.
Yet the Muse listen'd to the plaints he made; `
Such moving plaints as Nature could inspire;
To me the Muse his tender plea convey'd,

But smooth'd, and suited to the sounding lyre.

When the stern panther sought his midnight prey, What fate reserv'd me for this Christian race?

O race more polish'd, more severe than they! "Ye prowling wolves, pursue my latest cries! Thou hungry tiger, leave thy reeking den! Ye sandy wastes, in rapid eddies rise!

O tear me from the whips and scorns of men! "Yet in their face superior beauty glows;

Are smiles the mien of Rapine and of Wrong? Yet from their lip the voice of Mercy flows,

And e'en Religion dwells upon their tongue. "Of blissful haunts they tell, and brighter climes, Where gentle minds convey'd by Death repair, But stain'd with blood, and crimson'd o'er with crimes,

Say, shall they merit what they paint so fair? "No, careless, hopeless of those fertile plains, Rich by our toils, and by our sorrows gay, They ply our labours, and enhance our pains, And feign these distant regions to repay. "For them our tusky elephant expires;

For them we drain the mine's embowel'd gold; Where rove the brutal nation's wild desires?

Our limbs are purchas'd, and our life is sold ! "Yet shores there are, blest shores for us remain,

And favour'd isles with golden fruitage crown'd, Where tufted flowrets paint the verdant plain, Where every breeze shall med'cine every wound. "There the stern tyrant that embitters life

Shall, vainly suppliant, spread his asking hand; There shall we view the billow's raging strife, Aid the kind breast, and waft his boat to land,"

ELEGY XXI.

Taking a view of the country from his retirement, he is led to meditate on the character of the ancient Britons. Written at the time of a rumoured tax upon luxury, 1746.

THUS Damon sung-What tho' unknown to praise
Umbrageous coverts hide my Muse and me;
Or 'mid the rural shepherds, flow my days,
Amid the rural shepherds, I am free.

To view sleek vassals crowd a stately hall,

Say, should I grow myself a solemn slave! To find thy tints, O Titian! grace my wall,

Forgo the flowery fields my fortune gave? Lord of my time, my devious path I bend, [lawn; Through fringy woodland, or smooth-shaven Or pensile grove, or airy cliff ascend,

And hail the scene by Nature's pencil drawn. Thanks be to Fate-though nor the racy vine, Nor fattening olive clothe the fields I rove, Sequester'd shades, and gurgling founts are mine, And every sylvan grot the Muses love.

Here if my vista point the mouldering pile,
Where hood and cowl Devotion's aspect wore,
I trace the tottering reliques with a smile,

To think the mental bondage is no more! Pleas'd if the glowing landscape wave with corn; Or the tall oaks, my country's bulwark, rise; Pleas'd, if mine eye, o'er thousand valleys borne, Discern the Cambrian hills support the skies. And see Plinlimmon! e'en the youthful sight Scales the proud hill's ethereal cliffs with pain! Such Caer-caradoc! thy stupendous height, Whose ample shade obscures th' Iernian main. Bleak, joyless regions! where, by science fir'd, Some prying sage his lonely step may bend; There, by the love of novel plants inspir'd,

Invidious view the clambering goats ascend.
Yet for those mountains, clad with lasting snow,
The freeborn Briton left his greenest mead,
Receding sullen from his mightier foe,

For here he saw fair Liberty recede.
Then if a chief perform'd a patriot's part,
Sustain'd her drooping sons, repell'd her foes,
Above all Persian luxe, or Attic art,

The rude majestic monument arose.
Progressive ages caroll'd forth his fame;
Sires to his praise attun'd their children's tongue;
The hoary Druid fed the generous flame,
While in such strains the reverend vizard sung.
"Go forth, my sons!-for what is vital breath,
Your gods expell'd, your liberty resign'd?
Go forth, my sons! for what is instant death
To souls secure perennial joys to find?
"For scenes there are, unknown to war or pain,
Where drops the balm that heals a tyrant's wound;
Where patriots, blest with boundless freedom, reign,
With mistletoe's mysterious garlands crown'd.
Such are the names that grace your mystic songs;
Your solemn woods resound their martial fire;
To you, my sons, the ritual meed belongs,

If in the cause you vanquish or expire. "Hark! from the sacred oak that crowns the groves, What awful voice my raptur'd bosom warms; This is the favour'd moment Heaven approves; Sound the shrill trump; this instant, sound to

arms."

Theirs was the science of a martial race,

To shape the lance, or decorate the shield; E'en the fair virgin stain'd her native grace, To give new horrours to the tented field. Now, for some cheek where guilty blushes glow, For some false Florimel's impure disguise, The listed youth, nor War's loud signal know,

Nor Virtue's call, nor Fame's imperial prize. Then if soft Concord lull'd their fears to sleep, Inert and silent slept the manly car; But rush'd horrific o'er the fearful steep,

If Freedom's awful clarion breath'd to war.

Now the sleek courtier, indolent, and vain, Thron'd in the splendid carriage glides supine; To taint his virtue with a foreign stain,

Or at a favourite's board his faith resign.

Leave then, O Luxury! this happy soil!

Chase her, Britannia, to some hostile shore! Or fleece the baneful pest with annual spoil', And let thy virtuous offspring weep no more!

ELEGY XXII.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR, WHEN THE RIGHTS OF SE-
PULTURE WERE SO FREQUENTLY VIOLATED.

SAY, gentle Sleep, that lov'st the gloom of night,
Parent of dreams! thou great magician, say,
Whence my late vision thus endures the light;
Thus haunts my fancy through the glare of day.
The silent Moon had scal'd the vaulted skies,
And anxious Care resign'd my limbs to rest;
A sudden lustre struck my wondering eyes,
And Silvia stood before my couch confest.
Ah! not the nymph so blooming and so gay,
That led the dance beneath the festive shade!
But she that in the morning of her day,

Entomb'd beneath the grass-green sod was laid.
No more her eyes their wonted radiance cast;
No more her breast inspir'd the lover's flame,
No more her cheek the Pæstan rose surpast;

Yet seem'd her lips' ethereal smile the same. Nor such her hair as deck'd her living face;

Nor such her voice as charm'd the listening crowd; Nor such her dress as heighten'd every grace;

Alas! all vanish'd for the mournful shroud! Yet seem'd her lips' ethereal charm the same; That dear distinction every doubt remov'd; Perish the lover, whose imperfect flame

Forgets one feature of the nymph he lov'd. "Damon," she said, "mine hour allotted flies; Oh! do not waste it with a fruitles tear!

Though griev'd to see thy Silvia's pale disguise,
Suspend thy sorrow, and attentive hear.
"So may thy Muse with virtuous fame be blest!
So be thy love with mutual love repaid!
So may thy bones in sacred silence rest,

Fast by the relics of some happier maid. "Thou know'st, how lingering on a distant shore Disease invidious nipt my flowery prime; And oh! what pangs my tender bosom tore, To think I ne'er must view my native clime! "No friend was near to raise my drooping head; No dear companion wept to see me die; 'Lodge me within my native soil,' I said;

'There my fond parents' honour'd relics lie.' "Though now debarr'd of each domestic tear; Unknown, forgot, I meet the fatal blow; There many a friend shall grace my woful bier.' And many a sigh shall rise, and tear shall flow. "I spoke, nor Fate forbore his trembling spoil; Some vernal mourner lent his careless aid; And soon 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 verse thy Silvia's bier; "T was then the nymphs their votive garlands wove, And strew'd the fragrance of the youthful year.

! Alludes to a tax upon luxury.

« ForrigeFortsæt »