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THE

BLEEDING ROCK,

A

LEGENDARY TALE.

The annual wound allur’d

The Syrien damfels to lament his fate,
In amorous ditties all a fummer's day;
While fmooth Adonis from his native Rock
Ran purple to the fea fuppos'd with blood
Of Thammuz yearly wounded.

MILTON.

N

1

THE

BLEEDING ROCK:

A

LEGENDARY TALE.

W

HERE beauteous Belmont rears its modeft brow,
To view Sabrina's filver waves below,
Liv'd LINDAMIRA; fair as Beauty's Queen,
The fame fweet form, the fame enchanting mein,
With all that fofter elegance of mind

By genius heighten'd, and by tafte refin'd.
Yet early was the doom'd the child of care,
For love, ill-fated love fubdu'd the fair.
Ah! what avails each captivating grace,
The form enchanting, or the finish'd face;
Or what each beauty on the heaven-born mind,
The foul fuperior or the taste refin'd?
Beauty but ferves deftruction to infure,
And fenfe, to feel the pang it cannot cure,

Each neighb'ring youth afpir'd to gain her hand,
And many a fuitor came from many a land,
But all in vain each neighb'ring youth aspir'd,
And diftant fuitors all in vain admir'd.
Averse to hear, yet fearful to offend,
The lover fhe refus'd fhe made a friend:
Her meek rejection wore fo mild a face,
More like acceptance feem'd it than difgrace.

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,
In forrow foften, and in anguish melt.
The figh elaborate, the fraudful tear,
The joy diffembled, and the well-feign'd fear,
All these were his; and his the treacherous art
That fteals the guileless and unpractis❜d heart.

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;
He saw, admir'd, nay fancied that he lov d:
But Polydore no real paffion knew,

Loft to all truth in feigning to be true.
No fenfe of tenderness could warm a heart,
Too proud to feel, too felfish to impart.

Cold as the inows of Rhodope defcend,
And with the chilling waves of Hebrus blend;
So cold the breaft where Vanity prefides
And mean felf-love the bofom-feelings gudes,"

Too well he knew to make his conqueft fure,
Win her soft heart, yet keep his own fecure.
So oft he told the well imagin'd tale.
So oft he fwore how fhould he not prevail?
Too unfufpecting not to be deceiv'd,

The well-imagined tale the nymph believ'd;
She lov'd the youth, fhe thought herself belov'd
Nor blush'd to praise whom every maid approv ́d.

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