Th' Etrufcan mountains fwell, with ruins.crown'd
Of ancient towns; and blue Soracte spires,
Wrapping his fides in tempefts. Eastward hence,
Nigh where the Celtian pyramid divides *
The mouldering wall, beyond yon fabrick huge,
Whofe duft the folemn antiquarian turns,

And thence, in broken fculptures caft abroad,
Like Sibyl's leaves, collects the builder's name
Rejoic'd, and the green medals frequent found
Doom Caracalla to perpetual fame:

The ftately pines, that fpread their branches wide
In the dun ruins of its ample halls, †

Appear but tufts; as may whate'er is high
Sink in comparifon, minute and vile.

Thefe, and unnumber'd, yet their brows uplift,
Rent of their graces; as Britannia's oaks

On Merlin's mount, or Snowden's rugged fides,
Stand in the clouds, their branches scatter'd round,
After the tempeft; Maufoleums, Cirques,
Naumachios, Forums; Trajan's column tall,
From whofe low bafe the fculptures wind aloft,
And lead through various toils, up the rough steep,
Its hero to the skies: and his dark tower .
Whofe execrable hand the city fir'd,
And while the dreadful conflagration blaz'd,

Play'd

The tomb of Ceftius, partly within and partly

without the walls.

+ The baths of Caracalla, a vaft ruin.

Nero's.

Play'd to the flames; and Phoebus' letter'd dome
And the rough reliques of Carine's street,
Where now the fhepherd to his nibbling sheep
Sits piping with his oaten reed; as erst

There pip'd the fhepherd to his nibbling fheep,
When th' humble roof Anchifes' fon explor'd
Of good Evander, wealth-defpifing king,
Amid the thickets: fo revolves the fcene;
So time ordains, who rolls the things of pride
From duft again to duft. Behold that heap
Of mouldering urns (their afhes blown away,
Duft of the mighty) the fame ftory tell;
And at its bafe, from whence the ferpent glides
Down the green desert street, yon hoary monk
Laments the fame, the vifion as he views,
The folitary, filent, folemn scene,

Where Cæfars, heroes, peafants, hermits' lie,'
Blended in duft together; where the flave
Refts from his labours; where th' infulting proud
Refigns his power; the mifer drops his hoard;
Where human folly fleeps.-There is a mood,
(I fing not to the vacant and the young)
There is a kindly mood of melancholy,

That wings the foul, and points her to the fkics;
When tribulation cloaths the child of man,
When age defcends with forrow to the grave,
'Tis fweetly-foothing fympathy to pain,
Agently-wakening call to health and ease.

C 2

*The Palatin library.

*

How

How mufical! when all-devouring Time,

Here fitting on his throne of ruins hoar,
While winds and tempests sweep his various lyre,
How sweet thy diapafon, Melancholy!

Cool evening comes; the setting fun displays
His vifible great round between yon towers,
As through two fhady cliffs; away, my Muse,
Though yet the prospect pleases, ever new
In vast variety, and yet delight

The many-figur'd fculptures of the path
Half beauteous, half effac'd; the traveller
Such antique marbles to his native land
Oft hence conveys; and every realm and state
With Rome's august remains, heroes and gods,
Deck their long galleries and winding groves;
Yet mifs we not th' innumerable thefts,
Yet ftill profuse of graces teems the waste.
Suffice it now th' Efquilian mount to reach
With weary wing, and seek the sacred reits
Of Maro's humble tenement; a low
Plain wall remains; à little fun-gilt heap,
Grotefque and wild; the gourd and olive brown
Weave the light roof: the gourd and olive fan
Their amorous foliage, mingling with the vine,
Who drops her purple clusters through the green.
Here let me lie, with pleasing fancy footh'd:
Here flow'd his fountain; here his laurels grew;
Here oft the meek good man, the lofty bard
Fram'd the celeftial fong, or focial walk'd
With Horace and the ruler of the world :

Happy

Happy Auguftus! who fo well infpir'd
Could't throw thy pomps and royalties afide,
Attentive to the wife, the great of foul,

And dignify thy mind. Thrice glorious days,
Aufpicious to the Mufes! then rever'd,
Then hallow'd was the fount, or fecret fhade,
Or open mountain, or whatever scene

The Poet chofe, to tune th' ennobling rħime
Melodious; ev'n the rugged fons of war,
Ev'n the rude hinds rever'd the Poet's name :
But now-another age, alas! is ours-
Yet will the Muse a little longer foar,
Unless the clouds of care weigh down her wing,
Since nature's ftores are fhut with cruel hand,
And each aggrieves his brother; fince in vain
The thirty pilgrim at the fountain asks
Th' o'erflowing wave-Enough-the plaint difdain.

See'ft thou yon fane? ev'n now inceffant time *
Sweeps her low mouldering marbles to the duft t;
And Phoebus' temple, nodding with its woods,
Threatens huge ruin o'er the small rotund.
'Twas there beneath a fig-tree's umbrage broad,
Th' aftonish'd fwains with reverend awe beheld
Thee, O Quirinus, and thy brother-twin,
Preffing the teat within a monster's grafp

Sportive; while oft the gaunt and rugged wolf

Turn'd her stretch'd neck and form'd your tender limbs.: So taught of Jove, ev'n the fell favage fed

*The temple of Romulus and Remus under Mount Palatin.

Your facred infancies, your virtues, toils,
The conquefts, glories, of th' Aufonian state,
Wrap'd in their fecret feeds. Each kindred foul,
Robust and fout, ye grapple to your hearts,
And little Rome appears. Her cots arife,
Green twigs of ofier weave the flender walls,
Green rushes spread the roofs; and here and there
Opens beneath the rock the gloomy cave.
Elate with joy Etrufcan Tiber views
Her fpreading scenes enameling his waves,
Her huts and hollow dells, and flocks and herds,
And gathering fwains; and rolls his yellow car
To Neptune's court with more majestic train.
Her speedy growth alarm'd the states around,
Jealous; yet, foon by wondrous virtue won,
They fink into her bofom. From the plough
Rose her dictators; fought, o'ercame, return'd,
Yes, to the plough return'd, and hail'd their peers;
For then no private pomp, no houshold state,
The public only fwell'd the generous breast.
Who has not heard the Fabian heroes fung?
Dentatus' fcars, or Mutius' flaming hand?
How Manlius fav'd the capitol? the choice
Of steady Regulus? As yet they stood,
Simple of life; as yet feducing wealth
Was unexplor'd, and fhame of poverty
Yet unimagin'd-Shine not all the fields
With various fruitage murmur not the brooks
Along the flowery vallies? They, content,
Feasted at nature's hand, indelicate,

2

Blithe,