'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,
All as I listen'd to his vulgar strain ;—
Yet such his beauty-would my birth allow,

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
To rouse or to assuage the human mind.

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.
What bands of black ideas spread their wings!
The peaceful regions of content invade!
With deadly poison taint the crystal springs!
With noisome vapour blast the verdant shade!
I know their leader, Spleen, and the dread sway
Of rigid Eurus, his detested sire;

Through one my blossoms and my fruits decay;
Through one my pleasures and my hopes expire.
Like some pale stripling, when his icy way,
Relenting, yields beneath the noontide beam,
I stand aghast; and chill'd with fear, survey
How far I've tempted life's deceitful stream.
Where, by remorse impell'd, repuls'd by fears,
Shall wretched Fancy a retreat explore?
She flies the sad presage of coming years,

And, sorrowing, dwells on pleasures now no more.

Again with patrons and with friends she roves,
But friends and patrons never to return;

She sees the Nymphs, the Graces, and the Loves,
But sees them weeping o'er Lucinda's urn.
She visits, liss! thy forsaken stream;

Oh! ill forsaken for Baotian air;

She deems no flood reflects so bright a beam,
No reed so verdant, and no flowers so fair.
She deems beneath thy sacred shades were peace,
Thy bays might ev'n the civil storm repel;
Reviews thy social bliss, thy learned ease,

And with no cheerful accent cries-Farewell!
Farewell, with whom to these retreats I stray'd,
By youthful sports, by youthful toils, allied;
Joyous we sojourn'd in thy circling shade,
And wept to find the paths of life divide.
She paints the progress of my rival's vow,
Sees every Muse a partial ear incline,
Binds with luxuriant bays his favour'd brow,

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,
Near some sad ruin's ghastly shade to dwell;
There let me fondly eye the rude remains,

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,
Quo minus est illis curæ mortalis egestas,
Avertes: victumque feres.

Thou, therefore, in proportion to their lack
Of human aid, with all thy care defend
From frozen seasons and inclement blasts,
And give them timely food.

VIRG.

NEAR Avon's bank, on Arden's flowery plain,
A tuneful shepherd* charm'd the listening wave,
And sunny Cotsol' fondly lov'd the strain,

Yet not a garland crowns the shepherd's grave!
Oh! lost Ophelia ! smoothly flow'd the day,
To feel his music with my flames agree,
To taste the beauties of his melting lay,

To taste, and fancy it was dear to thee.
When for his tomb, with each revolving year,
I steal the musk-rose from the scented brake,
I strew my cowslips, and I pay my tear,

I'll add the myrtle for Ophelia's sake.

Shivering beneath a leafless thorn he lay, [tongue;
When death's chill rigour seiz'd his flowing
The more I found his faltering notes decay,
The more prophetic truth sublim'd the song.

* Mr. Somervile.