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-The annual wound allur'd
The Syrien damsels to lament his fate,
In amorous ditties all a summer's day ;
While smooth Adonis from his native Rock
Ran purple to the sea fuppor'd with blood
Of Thammuz yearly wounded.









HERE beauteous Belmont rears its modeft brown

To view Sabrina's filver waves below,
Liv'd LINDAMIRA; fair as Beauty's Queen,
The same fweet form, the same 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 subdu'd the fair.
Ah! what avails each captivating grace,
The form enchanting, or the finish'd face ;
Or what cach beauty on the heaven-born mind,
The foul superior or the taste refin'd?
Beauty but Terver destruction to infure,
And sense, to feel the pang it cannot cure,


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Each neighb'ring youth aspir'd to gain her hand,
And many a suitor came from many a land,
But all in vain each neighb'ring youth aspird,
And distant fuitors all in rain admir'd.
Averse to hear, yet fearful to offend,
The lover she refus'd she made a friend :
Her meek reje&tion wore so mild a face,
More like acceptance feem'd it than disgrace.


Young POLYDORE, the pride of rural swains, Was wont to visit Belmont'o blooming plains. Who has not heard how Polydore cou'd throw Th’ unerring dart to wound the flying doe? How leave the swiftest at the race behind, How mount the courser, and outstrip the wind ? With melting sweetness, or with magic fire, Breathe the foft fute, or strike the louder lyre? From thar fam'd lyre no vulgar music fprung, The Graces tun'd it and Apollo ftrung.


Apollo too was once a shepherd swain,
And fed the flock, and grac'd the rustic plain,
He taught what charms to rural life belong,
The focial sweetness, and the fylvan fong:
He taught fair Wisdom in her

grove wooe,
Her joys how precious and her wants how few !
The favage herds in mute attention stood,
And ravilh'd Echo fill'd the vocal wood
The facred Sisters, stooping from their sphere,
Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear.

Heaven the scene survey'd with jealous eyes,
And Jove in envy, call'd him to the skies.

Young Polydore was rich in large domains, In smiling pastures, and in flowery plains : With these he boasted each exterior charm, To win the prudent, and the cold to warm ;

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To act the tenderness he never felt,
In sorrow soften, and in anguilh melt.
The figh elaborate, the fraudful tear,
The joy dissembled, and the well-feign'd fear,
All these were his; and his the treacherous art
That steals the guileless and unpractis'd heart.

Too soon he heard of Lindamira's fame, 'Twas each enamour'd Shepherd's fav'rite theme : : Return’d the rising, and the setting fun, The Shepherd's fap'rite theme was never done. They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her air! And even inferior beauties thought her fair.

Such sweet perfection all his wonder mor'd;
He saw, admir'd, nay fancied that he lov d:
But Polydore no real passion knew,
Loft to all truth in feigning to be true.
No sense 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 breast where Vanity prefides
And mean felf-love the bosom-feelings guides,'

Too well he knew to make his conqueft fute, Win her soft heart, yet keep his own secure. So oft he told the well imagin'd tale. So oft he swore how should he not prevail ? Too unsuspecting not to be deceiv'd, The well-imagined tale the nymph believ'd; She lov'd the youth, the thought herself belov'd Nor blush'd to praise whom every maid approv'd.

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