Let the proud Soldan wound th' Arcadian groves,
Or with rude lips th' Aonian fount profane;
The mufe no more by flow'ry LADON roves,
She feeks her THOMSON, on the British plain.

Tell not of realms by ruthless war difmay'd;
As hapless realms that war's oppreffion feel!
In vain may AUSTRIA boast her Noric blade,

If AUSTRIA bleed beneath her boasted steel.

Beneath her palm IDUME vents her moan;
Raptur'd fhe once beheld its friendly fhade!
And hoary MEMPHIS boafts her tombs alone,
The mournful types of mighty pow'r decay'd!

No crefcent here difplays its baneful horns;

No turban'd hoft the voice of truth reproves; Learning's free fource the fage's breast adorns,

And poets, not inglorious, chaunt their loves.

Boast, favour'd MEDIA, boast thy flow'ry stores
Thy thousand hues by chymic funs refin'd;
'Tis not the dress or mien my foul adores,

'Tis the rich beauties of BRITANNIA's mind.

While GREENVILLE's breaft cou'dvirtue's ftores afford,,

What envy'd flota bore fo fair a freight?

The mine compared in vain its latent hoard,
The gem its luftre, and the gold its weight.

* Written about the time of captain GREENVILLE's death.

VOL. I.

E

Thee

Thee GREENVILLE, thee with calmeft courage fraught,
Thee the lov'd image of thy native shore!
Thee by the virtues arm'd, the graces taught,
When fhall we cease to boaft, or to deplore?

Prefumptuous war, which could thy life destroy,
What fhall it now in recompence decree?
While friends that merit every earthly joy,
Feel every anguifh; feel-the lofs of thee!

Bid me no more a fervile realm compare,

No more the mufe of partial praise arraign;
BRITANNIA fees no foreign breast so fair,
And if the glory, glories not in vain.

ELEGY

ELE GY XV.

In memory of a* private family in WORCESTERSHIRE,

F

ROM a lone tow'r with rev'rend ivy crown'd,

The pealing bell awak'd a tender figh; Still, as the village caught the waving found, A fwelling tear diftream'd from ev'ry eye.

So droop'd, I ween, each BRITON's breast of old, When the dull curfew fpoke their freedom fled; For fighing as the mournful accent roll'd,

Our hope, they cry'd, our kind fupport, is dead!

'Twas good PALEMON-near a fhaded pool,
A groupe of ancient elms umbrageous rofe;
The flocking rooks, by instinct's native rule,
This peaceful scene, for their asylum, chose.

A few small spires, to Gothic fancy fair,
Amid the shades emerging, ftruck the view;
'Twas here his youth refpir'd its earliest air;
'Twas here his age breath'd out its last adieu.

*The penns of HARBOROUGH; a place whofe name in the SAXON language, alludes to an arm. And there is a tradition that there was a battle fought, on the Downs adjoining, betwixt the BRITONS and the ROMANS.

One favour'd fon engag'd his tenderest care;

One pious youth his whole affection crown'd: In his young breast the virtues sprung so fair,

Such charms display'd, such sweets diffus'd around.

But whilft gay transport in his face

appears,
A noxious vapour clogs the poifon'd sky;
Blasts the fair crop-the fire is drown'd in tears,
And, fcarce furviving, fees his CYNTHIO die!

O'er the pale corfe we faw him gently bend;
Heart-chill'd with grief-my thread, he cry'd, is fpun!
If heav'n had meant I fhou'd my life extend,
Heav'n had preferv'd my life's fupport, my fon.

Snatch'd in thy prime! alas the stroke were mild, Had my frail form obey'd the fates' decree 1 Bleft were my lot, OCYNTHIO! O my child! Had heav'n fo pleas'd, and I had dy'd for thee.”

Five fleepless nights he stem'd this tide of woes;
Five irkfome funs he faw, thro' tears, forlorn!
On his pale corfe the fixth fad morning rofe;

From yonder dome the mournful bier was borne.

'Twas on thofe * downs, by Roman hosts annoy'd, Fought our bold fathers; ruftic, unrefin'd! Freedom's plain fons, in martial cares employ'd! They ting'd their bodies, but unmask'd their mind.

'Twas

HARBOROUGH Downs.

'Twas there, in happier times, this virtuous race,
Of milder merit, fix'd their calm retreat;
War's deadly crimson had forfook the place,
And freedom fondly lov'd the chofen feat.

No wild ambition fir'd their tranquil breast,

To fwell with empty founds a spotless name; If foft'ring fkies, the fun, the fhow'r were bleft, Their bounty spread; their field's extent the fame.

Those fields, profufe of raiment, food, and fire,
They scorn'd to leffen, careless to extend ;
Bade luxury, to lavish courts aspire,
And avarice, to city-breafts defcend.

None, to a virgin's mind, prefer'd her dow'r ;
To fire with vicious hopes a modeft heir:
The fire, in place of titles, wealth, or pow'r,
Affign'd him virtue; and his lot was fair.

They spoke of fortune, as fome doubtful dame,
That fway'd the natives of a distant sphere;
From lucre's vagrant fons had learnt her fame,
But never wish'd to place her banners here.

Here youth's free fpirit, innocently gay,

Enjoy'd the most that innocence can give;

Those wholesome fweets, that border virtue's way; Those cooling fruits, that we may tafte and live.