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Against my lifel-may Heaven his guilt explore,
He said, and stalk'd away.--Ah Goddess I 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, To melt the feeling heart, yet sooth its tenderest woes.
The fervent prayer was heard-With hideous sound
Her ebon gates of darkness open flew;
More mild enchantments rise ;
[plain, Groves, fountains, bowers, and temples grace the And turtles coo around, and nightingales complain.
And every myrtle bower and cypress grove,
And every solemn temple teems with life ;
In groups around the lawn,
The sad spectators seem transfix'd in woe,
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 !
Behind yon mouldering tower with ivy crown'd,
What could such fury move!
What but ill-fated love! The same fair object each fond heart enthralls, And he, the favour'd youth, her hapless victim falls.
Can aught so deeply sway the generous mind
To mutual truth, as female trust in love ?
By fair, but false pretence,
And that sweet babe, the fruit of treacherous art, Claspt in her arms expires, and breaks the parent's
Ah! who to pomp or grandeur would aspire ?
Kings are not rais'd above misfortune's frown. That form, so graceful even in mean attire, Sway'd once a sceptre, once sustain'd a crown.
From filial rage and strife,
To screen his closing life, He quits his throne, a father's sorrow feels, And in the lap of Want his patient head conceals.
More yet remain d—but lol the pensive Queen
Appears confest before my dazzled sight: Grace in her steps, and softness in her mien, The face of sorrow mingled with delight.
Not such her nobler frame,
When kindling into flame,
Aw'd into silence, my wrapt soul attends
The Power, with eyes complacent, saw my fear;
“ Aspiring son of art,
Glow with these wonders to thy fancy shown,
" A thousand tender scenes of soft distress
May swell thy breast with sympathetic woes ; A thousand such dread forms on fancy press, As from my dreary realms of darkness rose.
Whence Shakspere's chilling fears,
And Otway's melting tears That aweful gloom, this melancholy plain, The types of every theme that suits the tragic strain.
" But dost thou worship Nature night and morn,
And all due honour to her precepts pay?
Hast thou the Graces fair
Invok'd with ardent prayer ? They must attire, as Nature must impart, The sentiment sublime, the language of the heart.
“ Then, if assenting Genius pour
Warın with inspiring influence on thy breast ; Taste, judgment, fancy, if thou canst display, And the deep source of Passion stand confest; Then
may the listening train, Affected, feel thy strain ;
Feel Grief or Terror, Rage or Pity move:
Humbled before her sight, and bending low,
I kiss'd the borders of her crimson vest;
While awe-struck thus I stood,
The bowers, the lawn, the wood,