MEL POMENE;

Q

OR, THE

REGIONS OF TERROR AND PITY.

AN ODE.

BY MR. ROBERT DODSLEY.

UEEN of the human heart! at whofe command

The fwelling tides of mighty paffion rife;

Melpomene, fupport my vent'rous hand,

And aid thy fuppliant in his bold emprize,
From the gay scenes of pride

Do thou his footsteps guide

To Nature's awful courts, where nurs'd of yore, Young Shakespeare, Fancy's child, was taught his various lore.

So may his favour'd eye explore the fource,

To few reveal'd, whence human forrows charm:

So may his numbers, with pathetick force,
Bid Terror shake us, or Compaffion warm,

As different ftrains controul

The movements of the foul,

Adjuft it's paffions, harmonize it's tone, To feel for others' woe, or nobly bear it's own.

Deep in the covert of a fhadowy grove,

'Mid broken rocks where dashing currents play,

Dear to the penfive pleasures, dear to love,

And Damon's Muse, that breathes her melting lay,

This ardent prayer was made:

When, lo! the fecret fhade,

As confcious of fome heavenly prefence, fhookStrength, firmnefs, reafon, all-my aftonifh'd foul forfook.

Ah! whither, goddess! whither am I borne?
To what wild region's necromantick fhore?
Thefe panicks whence? and why my bofom torn
With fudden terrors never felt before?
Darkness inwraps me round,

While from the vaft profound
Emerging fpe&res dreadful fhapes affume,
And gleaming on my fight, add horror to the gloom.

Ha! what is he, whofe fierce, indignant eye,
Denouncing vengeance, kindles into flame?
Whose boisterous fury blows a form fo high,
As with it's thunder shakes his labouring frame.
What can fuch rage provoke?

His words their paffage choak:

His eager fteps, nor time nor truce allow,

And dreadful dangers wait the menace of his brow.

Protect me, Goddefs! whence that fearful fhriek
Of confternation? as grim Death had laid
His icy fingers on fome guilty cheek,

And all the powers of manhood shrunk dismay'd:
Ah, fee! befmear'd with gore,

Revenge ftands threat'ning o'er

A pale delinquent, whose retorted eyes
In vain for pity call-the wretched victim dies!

Nor long the space-abandon'd to despair,
With eyes aghaft, or hopeless, fix'd on earth,
This flave of paffion rends his scatter'd hair,
Beats his fad breaft, and execrates his birth:

While torn within, he feels

The pangs of whips and wheels;

And fees, or fancies, all the fiends below, Beckoning his frighted foul to realms of endless woe.

Before my wond'ring fenfe new phantoms dance,
And stamp their horrid shapes upon my brain!
A wretch with jealous brow, and eyes afkance,
Feeds all in fecret on his bofom pain.

Fond love, fierce hate, affail;

Alternate they prevail:

While confcious pride and shame with rage confpire, And urge the latent fpark to flames of torturing fire.

The storm proceeds-his changeful vifage trace:
From rage to madnels ev'ry feature breaks.

A growing phrenzy grins upon his face,

And in his frightful ftare Distraction speaks:
His ftraw-invefted head

Proclaims all reafon fled;

And not a tear bedews thofe vacant eyes-
But fongs and fhouts fucceed, and laughter-mingled fighs.

Yet, yet again!—a murd'rer's hand appears
Grafping a pointed dagger ftain'd with blood!
His look malignant chills with boding fears,
That check the current of life's ebbing food.
In midnight's darkest clouds

The dreary mifcreant shrouds

His felon ftep-as 'twere to darkness given, To dim the watchful eye of all-pervading Heaven.

And hark! Ah, mercy! whence that hollow found?
Why with strange horror ftarts my bristling hair?
Earth opens wide; and, from unhallow'd ground,
A pallid ghoft, flow-rifing, fteals on air:

To where a mangled corfe,

Expos'd without remorse,

Lies fhroudlefs, unentomb'd, he points the way... Points to the prowling wolf exultant o'er his prey.

Was it for this,' he cries,

with kindly fhower Of daily gifts the traitor I carefs'd?

For this array'd him in the robe of power,

And lodg'd my royal fecrets in his breaft?
O kindness ill repay'd!

To bare the murdering blade

Against my life!-May Heav'n his guilt explore, And to my fuffering race their fplendid rights reftore!'

He said, and stalk'd away. Ah, Goddefs! ceafe

Thus with terrifick forms to rack my brain;

These horrid phantoms shake the throne of Peace,
• And Reafon calls her boafted powers in vain,
'I hen change thy magick wand,

Thy dreadful troops difband,

And gentler fhapes, and fofter fcenes disclofe, To melt the feeling heart, yet foothe it's tenderest woes !'

The fervent prayer was heard-With hideous found,
Her ebon gates of darkness open flew ;
A dawning twilight chears the dread profound,
The train of terror vanishes from view.

More mild enchantments rife;

New scenes falute my eyes;

Groves, fountains, bowers, and temples, grace the plain, And turtles coo around, and nightingales complain.

And every myrtle bower and cypress grove,

And every folemn temple teems with life; Here glows the scene with fond but hapless love,

There with the deeper woes of human ftrife.

In groups around the lawn,

By fresh difafters drawn,

The fad fpectators seem transfix'd in woe,

And pitying fighs are heard, and heart-felt forrows flow.

Behold that beauteous maid! her languid head,
Bends like a drooping lily charg’d with rain;

With floods of tears fhe bathes a lover dead,
In brave affertion of her honour flain.
Her bofom heaves with fighs,

To Heaven the lifts her eyes,

With grief beyond the power of words oppress'd, Sinks on the lifeless corfe, and dies upon his breast.

How strong the bands of Friendship? Yet, alas!
Behind yon mouldering tower with ivy crown'd,
Of two, the foremost in her facred class,

One from his friend receives the fatal wound!
What could fuch fury move!

What, but ill-fated love!

The fame fair object each fond heart enthralls, And he, the favour'd youth, her hapless victim falls.

Can aught fo deeply fway the generous mind
To mutual truth, as female truft in love?

Then what relief fhall yon fair mourner find,
Scorn'd by the man who should her plaints remove?
By fair, but falfe pretence,

She loft her innocence;

And that sweet babe, the fruit of treacherous art, Clasp'd in her arms expires, and breaks the parent's heart.

Ah! who to pomp or grandeur would aspire?
Kings are not rais'd above Misfortune's frown:

That form, fo graceful even in mean attire,
Sway'd once a fceptre, once sustain’d a crown,

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