Against my life-may Heaven his guilt explore, And to my suffering race their splendid rights restore." He said, and stalk'd away.-Ah Goddess! cease, Thus with terrific forms to rack my brain; These horrid phantoms shake the throne of peace, And Reason calls her boasted powers in vain; Then change thy magic wand, Thy dreadful troops disband, And gentler shapes, and softer scenes disclose, The fervent prayer was heard-With hideous sound A dawning twilight cheers the dread profound, More mild enchantments rise; New scenes salute my eyes, [plain, Groves, fountains, bowers, and temples grace the And turtles coo around, and nightingales complain. And every myrtle bower and cypress grove, The sad spectators seem transfix'd in woe, And pitying sighs are heard and heart-felt sorrows flow. Behold that beauteous maid! her languid head Bends like a drooping lily charg'd with rain; With floods of tears she bathes a Lover dead, In brave assertion of her honour slain. Her bosom heaves with sighs, To Heaven she lifts her eyes, With grief beyond the power of words opprest, Sinks on the lifeless corse, 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 same fair object each fond heart enthralls, Can aught so deeply sway the generous mind She lost her innocence; And that sweet babe, the fruit of treacherous art, Claspt in her arms expires, and breaks the parent's heart. Ah! who to pomp or grandeur would aspire ? To screen his closing life, He quits his throne, a father's sorrow feels, More yet remain❜d-but lo! the pensive Queen And bold in Virtue's cause, her zeal aspires Aw'd into silence, my wrapt soul attends The Power, with eyes complacent, saw my fear; And, as with grace ineffable she bends, These accents vibrate on my listening ear: "Aspiring son of art, Know tho' thy feeling heart Glow with these wonders to thy fancy shown, "A thousand tender scenes of soft distress That aweful gloom, this melancholy plain, "But dost thou worship Nature night and morn, Canst thou the lure of Affectation scorn, Invok'd with ardent prayer? They must attire, as Nature must impart, "Then, if assenting Genius pour his ray, Feel Grief or Terror, Rage or Pity move: Change with thy varying scenes, and every scene approve." Humbled before her sight, and bending low, I kiss'd the borders of her crimson vest; Eager to speak, I felt my bosom glow, The bowers, the lawn, the wood, |