THE BLEEDING ROCK, A LEGENDARY TALE. The annual wound allur’d The Syrien damfels to lament his fate, MILTON. N THE BLEEDING ROCK: A LEGENDARY TALE. W HERE beauteous Belmont rears its modeft brow, By genius heighten'd, and by tafte refin'd. Each neighb'ring youth afpir'd to gain her hand, Young POLYDORE, the pride of rural fwains, Was wont to vifit Belmont's blooming plains. Who has not heard how Polydore cou'd throw Th' unerring dart to wound the flying doe? How leave the fwifteft at the race behind, How mount the courfer, and outstrip the wind? With melting sweetness, or with magic fire, Breathe the foft flute, or ftrike the louder lyre? From that fam'd lyre no vulgar mufic fprung, The Graces tun'd it and Apollo ftrung. Apollo too was once a fhepherd fwain, And fed the flock, and grac'd the ruftic plain, He taught what charms to rural life belong, The focial fweetnefs, and the fylvan fong: He taught fair Wisdom in her grove to wooe, Her joys how precious and her wants how few! The favage herds in mute attention ftood, And ravish'd Echo fill'd the vocal wood The facred Sifters, stooping from their sphere, Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear. Till Heaven the fcene furvey'd with jealous eyes, And Jove in envy, call'd him to the skies. Young Polydore was rich in large domains, In fmiling paftures, and in flowery plains: With these he boafted each exterior charm, To win the prudent, and the cold to warm; To act the tenderness he never felt, Too foon he heard of Lindamira's fame, 'Twas each enamour'd Shepherd's fav'rite theme: Return'd the rifing, and the fetting fun, The Shepherd's fav'rite theme was never done. They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her air! And even inferior beauties thought her fair. Such fweet perfection all his wonder mov'd; Loft to all truth in feigning to be true. Cold as the inows of Rhodope defcend, Too well he knew to make his conqueft fure, The well-imagined tale the nymph believ'd; 4 |