Druids, our native bards in ancient time,
Who gods and heroes praised in hallow'd rhyme !
Hence, often as the maids of Greece furround
Apollo's fhrine with hymns of festive found,
They name the virgins who arrived of yore
With British offerings on the Delian shore;
Loxo, from giant Corineus fprung,
Upis, on whose bleft lips the future hung,
And Hecaerge, with the golden hair, [bare.
All deck'd with Pictish hues, and all with bofoms
Thou, therefore, happy fage, whatever clime
Shall ring with Taffo's praise in after time,
Or with Marino's, fhalt be known their friend,
And with an equal flight to fame afcend.
The world fhall hear how Phœbus and the Nine
Were inmates once, and willing guests of thine.
Yet Phœbus, when of old constrain'd to roam
The earth, an exile from his heavenly home,
Enter'd, no willing guest, Admetus' door,
Though Hercules had ventured there before.
But gentle Chiron's cave was near, a scene
Of rural peace, clothed with perpetual green,
And thither, oft as refpite he required
From ruftic clamours loud, the God retired.
There, many a time, on Peneus' bank reclined
At fome oak's root, with ivy thick entwined,
Won by his hofpitable friend's defire,
He foothed his pains of exile with the lyre.
Then shook the hills, then trembled Peneus' fhore,
Nor Oeta felt his load of forefts more;
The upland elms defcended to the plain,
And soften'd lynxes wonder'd at that strain.
Well may we think, O dear to all above!
Thy birth distinguish'd by the smile of Jove,
And that Apollo shed his kindliest power,
And Maia's fon, on that propitious hour,
Since only minds fo born can comprehend
A poet's worth, or yield that worth a friend.
Hence on thy yet unfaded cheek appears
The lingering freshness of thy greener years,
Hence in thy front and features we admire
Nature unwither'd and a mind entire.
O might so true a friend to me belong,
So fkill'd to grace the votaries of song,
Should I recall hereafter into rhyme
The kings and heroes of my native clime,
Arthur the chief, who even now prepares,
In fubterraneous being, future wars,
With all his martial knights, to be restored
Each to his feat around the federal board;
And oh, if spirit fail me not, difperfe
Our Saxon plunderers in triumphant verse!
Then, after all, when, with the past content,
A life I finish, not in filence spent ;
Should he, kind mourner, o'er my deathbed bend,
I fhall but need to fay-" Be yet my friend!"
He, too, perhaps, fhall bid the marble breathe
To honour me, and with the graceful wreath
Or of Parnaffus or the Paphian ifle
Shall bind my brows-but I fhall reft the while.
Then alfo, if the fruits of Faith endure,
And Virtue's promised recompense be sure,
Born to those feats to which the blest aspire
By purity of foul and virtuous fire,
These rites, as Fate permits, I shall survey
With eyes illumined by celestial day,
And, every cloud from my pure spirit driven,
Joy in the bright beatitude of Heaven!
Thyrfis and Damon, fhepherds and neighbours, had always purfued the fame ftudies, and had, from their earliest days, been united in the closest friendship. Thyrfis, while travelling for improvement, received intelligence of the death of Damon, and, after a time, returning and finding it true, deplores himfelf, and his folitary condition, in this poem.
By Damon is to be understood Charles Deodati, connected with the Italian city of Lucca by his father's fide, in other respects an Englishman; a youth of uncommon genius, erudition, and virtue.
E Nymphs of Himera, (for ye have shed Erewhile for Daphnis, and for Hylas dead,
And over Bion's long-lamented bier,
The fruitless meed of many a facred tear)
Now through the villas laved by Thames rehearse
The woes of Thyrfis in Sicilian verse,
What fighs he heaved, and how with groans pro-
He made the woods and hollow rocks refound,
Young Damon dead; nor even ceased to pour
His lonely forrows at the midnight hour.
The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear,
And golden harvest twice enrich'd the year,
Since Damon's lips had gafp'd for vital air
The last, last time, nor Thyrfis yet was there;
For he, enamour'd of the Muse, remain'd
In Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'd,
But, ftored at length with all he wish'd to learn,
For his flock's fake now hafted to return;
And when the shepherd had resumed his seat
At the elm's root, within his old retreat,
Then 'twas his lot, then, all his loss to know,
And from his burthen'd heart he vented thus his
[are due "Go, feek your home, my lambs; my thoughts To other cares than those of feeding you. Alas! what deities fhall I fuppofe
In heaven, or earth, concern'd for human woes,
Since, oh my Damon! their fevere decree
So foon condemns me to regret of thee !
Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaid
With fame and honour, like a vulgar fhade!
Let him forbid it whofe bright rod controls,
And separates fordid from illuftrious fouls;
Drive far the rabble, and to thee affign
A happier lot with spirits worthy thine!
"Go, feek your home, my lambs; my thoughts To other cares than thofe of feeding you. [are due Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chance
The wolf first give me a forbidding glance,
Thou shalt not moulder undeplored, but long
Thy praise shall dwell on every fhepherd's tongue.
To Daphnis first they shall delight to pay,
And, after him, to thee the votive lay,
While Pales shall the flocks and pastures love,
Or Faunus to frequent the field or grove;
At least, if ancient piety and truth,
With all the learned labours of thy youth,
May serve thee aught, or to have left behind
A forrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind.
"Go, feek your home, my lambs; my thoughts
To other cares than those of feeding you. [are due
Yes, Damon! fuch thy fure reward shall be;
But ah, what doom awaits unhappy me?
Who, now, my pains and perils shall divide,
As thou waft wont, for ever at my fide,
Both when the rugged froft annoy'd our feet,
And when the herbage all was parch'd with heat;
Whether the grim wolf's ravage to prevent,
Or the huge lion's, arm'd with darts we went?
Whose converse now fhall calm my ftormy day,
With charming fong, who now beguile my way?
"Go, feek your home, my lambs; my thoughts To other cares than those of feeding you. [are due In whom shall I confide? Whofe counsel find A balmy medicine for my troubled mind? Or whose difcourfe with innocent delight Shall fill me now, and cheat the wintry night, While hiffes on my hearth the pulpy pear, And blackening chestnuts start and crackle there, While storms abroad the dreary meadows whelm, And the wind thunders thro' the neighbouring elm. "Go, feek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due
To other cares than those of feeding you.
Or who, when fummer funs their fummit reach,
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