No more the virgins fall delight to rove
By Sargis' banks, or Irwan's shady grove ;
On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale,
Or breathe the sweets of Aly's flowery vale:
Fair scenes ! but, ah! no more with peace pofseits
With ease alluring, and with plenty bleft.
No more the shepherd's whitening tents appear,
Nor the kind products of a bounteous year ;
No more the date, with snowy blossoms crown's !
But ruin spreads her baleful fires around.

S, E. CAND E R.
In vain Circafia boasts her spicy groves,
For ever fam’d for pure and happy loves :
In vain the boasts her. faireft of the fair,
Their eye's blue languish, and their golden hair!.
Those

eyes in tears their fruitless grief muft fendz Those hairs the Tartar's cruel hand shall rend.

Асів.

Ye Georgian fwains that piteous learn from fari Eircafli's ruin, and the wafte of war ; Some weightier arms than crooks and staffs prepare; To fhield your harvests, and defend your fair : : The Turk and Tartar like designs pursue, Fix'd to destroy, and stedfast to undo. Wild as his land, in native deserts bred, By luft incited, or by malice led,

The The villain Arab, as he prowls for prey,

:
Oft marks with blood and wasting flames the way;
Yet none fo cruel as the Tartar foe,
To death inur'd, and nurs'd in scenes of woe.

He said ; when loud along the vale was heard
A Thriller shriek, and nearer fires appear’d:
Th' affrighted shepherds thro’ the dews of night,
Wide o'er the moon-light hills renew'd their fight.

.

A L E T.

WH

HILE you, my lord, the rural shades admirex

And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to please,
For their advantage sacrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.
For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd

eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,
And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the muse so oft her harp has ftrung,
That not a mountain rear: its head unsung,
Renown'd in verse each fhdy thicket grows,
And ev'ry stream in heav'niy numbers flows.

How

a

a

How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods
For rising springs and celebrated floods !
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source ;
To see the Mincio draw his watry store
Through the long windings of a fruitful shore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide
O'er the warm bed of smoking fulphur glide.

Fir'd with a thousand raptures I survey
Eridanus through flow’ry meadows stray,
The king of floods ! that rolling o'er the plains
The tow'ring Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortaliz’d in song,
That loft in filence and oblivion lie,
(Dumb are their fountains, and their channels dry).
Yet run for ever by the muse's skill,
And in the smooth description murmur ftill.

Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the fam’d river's empty shores admire,
That deititute of strength derives its course
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source;
Yet fung so often in poetic lays,
With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys ;
So high the deathless muse exalts her theme !
Such was the Boyn, a poor inglorious stream,

That

That in Hibernian vales obscurely ftray'd,
And unobserv'd in wild Meanders play'd ;
Till by your lines and Nassau's sword renown'd, -
Its rising billows through the world resound,
Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

Oh cou'd the muse ravish'd my breaft inspire
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire,
Unnumber'd beauties in my verse Mou'd thine,
And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me smile; That fhun the coast of Britain's stormy isle, Or when transplanted and preserv'd with care, Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air.. Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments To nobler taftes, and more exalted scents : Ev’n the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, fome God, to Baia's gentle seats, , Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats-; Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seasons lavish all their pride : Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, , And the whole

year

in
gay

confusion lies.
Immortal glories in my mind revive,
And in my foul a thousand passions strive,
When Rome's exalted beauties I descry
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.

An