Sivut kuvina
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Nor love of novelty alone inspires,
'Their laws and nice dependencies to scan ;
For, mindful of the aids that life requires,
And of the services man owes tu man,
He me itates new arts on Nature's plan;
The cold desponding breast of Sloth to warm,
'The flame of Industry and Genius fan,
An Emulativn's noble


and the long hours of Toil and Solitude to charm.

But She who set on fire his infant heart,
And all his dreams, and all his wanderings shared
And bless'd the Mufe and her celeitial art,
Still claim d th’ Enthufiaft's fond aud firit regard.
From Nature's beauties variously compared
And varioully coinbined, he learns to frame
Those forms of bright perfection, which the Bard,

While boundless hopes and boundless views inflame,
Enamour'd confecrates to never-dying faine.

Of late, with cumbersome, though pompous show,
Edwin would oft his flowry rhime deface,
Through ardour to adorn ; but Nature now
To his experieuced eye a inodett grace
Prefeuts, where Ornament the second place
Holds to intrinsic worth and jult deliga
Subfervient itill. Simplicity apace

Teinpers his rage: he owns her charm divine,
And clears th’ainbiguous phrase, and lops th' unwieldy

Fain would I fing (much yet unsung remains)
What sweet delirium o'er his bofom ilule,
When the great Shepherd of the Mauluan plains *
His deep inajestic melody 'gan to roll:

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Fain would I fing, what transport florm'd his soul,
How the red current throbb’d his veins along,
When, like Pelides, bold beyond controul,

Gracefully terrible, sublimely strong,
Homerraised high to heaven the loud, ih’impetuous song.

LX. And how his lyre, though rude her first essays, Now skill'd to footh, to triumph, to complain, Warbling at will through each harmonious maze, Was taught to modulate the artful train, I fain would fing :--but ah ! I firive in vain.Sighs from a breaking heart my voice confound. With trembling itep, to join yon weeping train,

I hafte, where gleams funeral glare around (found. And, mix'd with thrieks of woe, the knells of death re

Adieu, ye lays, that fancy's flowers adorn,
The soft amusement of the vacant mind !
He sleeps in dust, and all the Muses mourn,
He, whom each Virtue tired, each grace refined,
Friend, teacher, pattern, darling of mankind ! *.
He sleeps in dut.--Ah, how fall I pursue
My theme' To heart-consuming grief relign'd
Here on this recent grave I fix my view,
And poor my bitter tears.—Ye flowery lays, adieu !

Art thou, my G*******, for ever fled !
And am I left to unavailing woe !
When fortune's storms affail this weary lead,
Where cares long since have thed untimely snow,
Ah, now for comfort whither shall I go!
No more thy foothing voice my anguish chears :

Thy placid eyes with smiles no longer glow, My hopes to cherish, and allay my fears.-- (tears. 'Tis meet that I should mourn :

-ow forth afrein

my * This excellent perfon died suddenly, on the oth of February, 1773. The conclufion of the poem was written a fev days after.

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Ρ Ο Ε M.

L A N G H O R N E.




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HERE is something Ro

mantic in the Story of the following Poem; but the Author has his Reasons for believing that there is something likewise, Authentic. On the simple Circumstances of the ancient Narrative, from which He first borrowed his Idea, those Reasons are principally founded, and they are supported by others, with which, in a Work of this Kind, to trouble his Readers would be fuperfluous.

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