'Have you not heard unwonted thunders roll? Have you not seen more horrid lightnings glare? 'Twas then a vulgar love ensnar'd my soul; 'Twas then-I hardly 'scap'd the fatal snare. 'Twas then a peasant pour'd his amorous vow, Dear were the youth, and blissful were the plain. 'But, oh! I faint; why wastes my vernal bloom, In fruitless searches ever doom'd to rove? My nightly dreams the toilsome path resume, And shall I die-before I find my love? "When last I slept, methought my ravish'd eye On distant heaths his radiant form survey'd ; Though night's thick clouds encompass'd all the sky The gems that bound his brow dispell'd the shade. "Oh how this bosom kindled at the sight! Led by their beams I urg'd the pleasing chase, Till on a sudden these withheld their lightAll, all things envy the sublime embrace. "But now no more-behind the distant grove Wanders my destin'd youth, and chides my stay: See, see! he grasps the steel-forbear, my loveIanthe comes; thy princess hasets away.' Scornful she spoke, and heedless of reply, The lovely maniac bounded o'er the plain, The piteous victim of an angry sky! Ah me! the victim of her proud disdain. HE INDULGES THE SUGGESTIONS OF SPLEEN: AN ELEGY TO THE WINDS. Eole! namque tibi divum Pater atque hominum rex, Et mulcere dedit mentes et tollere vento. O Æolus! to thee, the Sire supreme Of gods and men, the mighty power bequeath'd STERN monarch of the winds! admit my pray'r; A while thy fury check, thy storms confine; No trivial blast impels the passive air, But brews a tempest in a breast like mine. Through one my blossoms and my fruits decay; And, sorrowing, dwells on pleasures now no more. Again with patrons and with friends she roves, She sees the Nymphs, the Graces, and the Loves, Oh! ill forsaken for Baotian air; She deems no flood reflects so bright a beam, And with no cheerful accent cries-Farewell! Nor yields the refuse of his wreath to mine. She bids the flattering mirror, form'd to please, Now blast my hope, now vindicate despair; Bids my fond verse the love-sick parley cease, Accuse my rigid fate, acquit my fair. Where circling rocks defend some pathless vale, Superfluous mortal! let me ever rove; Alas! there echo will repeat the tale Where shall I find the silent scenes I love? Fain would I mourn my luckless fate alone, Forbid to please, yet fated to admire; Away, my friends! my sorrows are my own; Why should I breathe around my sick desire? Bear me, ye winds! indulgent to my pains, And from the mouldering refuse build my cell. Genius of Rome! thy prostrate pomp display, Trace every dismal proof of Fortune's pow'r; Let me the wreck of theatres survey, Or pensive sit beneath some nodding tow'r. Or where some duct, by rolling seasons worn, Convey'd pure streams to Rome's imperial wall; Near the wide breach in silence let me mourn, Or tune my dirges to the water's fall. Genius of Carthage! paint thy ruin'd pride; Towers, arches, fanes, in wild confusion strown; Let banish'd Marius,* louring by thy side, Compare thy fickle fortunes with his own. Ah no! thou monarch of the storms! forbear; My trembling nerves abhor thy rude control, And scarce a pleasing twilight soothes my care, Ere one vast death-like darkness shocks my soul. Forbear thy rage-on no perennial base Is built frail Fear, or Hope's deceitful pile; My pains are fled-my joy resumes its place, Should the sky brighten, or Melissa smile. * Inopemque vitam in tugurio ruinarum Carthaginensium toleravit, cum Marium inspiciens Carthaginem, illa intuens Marium, alter alteri possent esse solatio.' Liv. EXPLANATION. Marius endured a life of poverty under shelter of the Carthagenian ruins; and while he contemplated Carthage, and Carthage be held him, they might be said mutually to resemble and accou for each other. HE REPEATS THE SONG OF COLIN, A DISCERNING SHEPHERD, LAMENTING THE STATE OF THE WOOLLEN MANUFACTORY. Ergo omni studio glaciem ventosque nivales, Thou, therefore, in proportion to their lack VIRG. NEAR Avon's bank, on Arden's flowery plain, Yet not a garland crowns the shepherd's grave! To taste, and fancy it was dear to thee. I'll add the myrtle for Ophelia's sake. Shivering beneath a leafless thorn he lay, [tongue; * Mr. Somervile. |