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And wakes to more than form th' illustrious dead.

Thy Cæsars, Scipios, Catos rise,
The great, the virtuous, and the wise,

In solemn statę advance !
They fix the philosophic eye,
Or trail the robe, or lift on high
The light'ning of the lance.

But chief that humbler happier train

Who knew those virtues to reward
Beyond the reach of chance or pain

Secure, th' historian and the bard,
By them the hero's generous rage

Still warm in youth immortal lives;
And in their adamantine page

Thy glory ftill survives.
Thro' deep Savannahs wild and vast,
Unheard, unknown thro' ages past,
Beneath the sun's directer beams

What copious torrents pour their streams!
No fame have they, no fond prețence to mourn,
No annals swell their pride, or grące their ftoried urn,
Whilft Thou, with Rome's exalted genius joins,

Her spear yet lifţed, and her corslet brac'd,
Can'st tell the waves, can'ft tell the passing wind
Thy wond'rous tale, and cheer the lift'ning waste,

Tho’ from his caves th’unfeeling North
Pour'd all his legion'd tempefts forth,


Yet still thy laurels bloom :
One deathless glory still remains,
Thy ftream bas roll'd thro' LATIAN plains,

Has wash'd the walls of Rome.


By the Same.

E L E G Y I.

Written at the Convent of HAUT VILLERS in


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ILENT and clear, thro' yonder peaceful vale,

While Marne's slow waters weave their mazy way, See, to th' exulting fun, and foft'ring gale,

What boundless treasures his rich banks display!

Fast by the stream, and at the mountain's base,

The lowing herds thro' living pastures rove; Wide -waving harvests crown the rising space ;

And still fuperior nods the viny grove.


High on the top, as guardian of the scene,

Imperial Sylvan spreads his umbrage wide ;
Nor wants there many a cot, and spire between,

Or in the vale, or on the mountain's fide,

To mark that Man, as tenant of the whole,

Claims the just tribute of his culturing care,
Yet pays to Heaven, in gratitude of foul,

The boon which Heaven accepts, of praife and prayer.

O dire effects of war! the time has been

When Desolation vaunted here her reign ;
One ravag'd defart was yon beauteous scene,

And Marne ran purple to the frighted Seine.

Oft at his work the toilfome day to cheat

The fwain ftill talks of those disastrous times,
When Guise's pride, and Condé's ill-star'd heat

Taught christian zeal to authorize their crimes:

Oft to his children sportive on the grass

Does dreadful tales of worn Tradition tell,
Oft points to Epernay's ill-fated pass

Where Force thrice triumph'd, and where Biron fell.


O dire effects of war!-may ever more

Thro' this sweet vale the voice of discord cease!
A British bard to Gallia's fertile shore

Can with the blessings of eternal peace.


Yet say, ye monks, (beneath whose moss-grown sea,

Within whose cloifter'd cells th' indebted Muse Awhile sojourns, for meditation meet,

And these loose thoughts in pensive train pursues)

Avails it aught, that War's rude tumult spare

Yon cluster'd vineyard, or yon golden field, If niggards to yourselves, and fond of care,

You flight the joys their copious treasures yield?

Avails it aught that Nature's liberal hand

With every blessing grateful man can know Cloaths the rich bolom of yon smiling land,

The mountain's floping fide, or pendant brow,

If meagre Famine paint your pallid cheek,

If breaks the midnight bell your hours of rest, If 'midst heart-chilling damps, and winter bleak,

You fhun the cheerful bowl, and moderate feaft!

Look forth, and be convinc'd ! 'tis Nature pleads,

Her ample volume opens on your view,
The fimple-minded swain, who running reads,

Feels the glad truth, and is it hid from you?

Look forth, and be convinc'd. Yon prospects wide

To Reason's ear how forcibly they speak; Compar'd with those how dull is letter'd Pride, And Auftin's babbling Eloquence how weak!


Temp'rance, not Abftinence, in every bliss

Is Man's true joy, and therefore Heaven's command. The wretch who riots thanks his God amiss :

Who starves, rejects the bounties of his hand.

Mark, while the Marne in yon full channel glides,

How smooth his course, how Nature smiles around ! Bat should impetuous torrents swell his tides,

The fairy landskip sinks in oceans drown'd.

Nor less disastrous should his thrifty urn

Neglected leave the once well-water'd land, To dreary wastes yon paradise would turn,

Polluted ooze, or heaps of barren fand.



To the Right Honourable
George Buffy Villiers, Viscount Villiers.

Written at Rome, 1756.
MID these mould'ring walls, this marble round,

A where hepe
the Heroes of the Julian name


Say, shall we linger still in thought profound,

And meditate the mournful paths to fame?
It is now a garden belonging to Marchese di Corré.


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