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, 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, 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? While from the vaft profound Ha! what is he, whofe fierce, indignant eye, 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 And all the powers of manhood shrunk dismay'd: Revenge ftands threat'ning o'er A pale delinquent, whose retorted eyes Nor long the space-abandon'd to despair, 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, 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: A growing phrenzy grins upon his face, And in his frightful ftare Distraction speaks: Proclaims all reafon fled; And not a tear bedews thofe vacant eyes- Yet, yet again!—a murd'rer's hand appears 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? 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? 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, 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, 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, With floods of tears fhe bathes a lover dead, 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! One from his friend receives the fatal wound! 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 Then what relief fhall yon fair mourner find, 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? That form, fo graceful even in mean attire, From |