Imatges de pÓgina
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Pour'd forth in notes like these her anxious mind.

What frantic train is this whose noise invades

· The accustom'd stilness of my tranquil shades, • Whase swelling clamors float my banks along, • And drown the sweetness of each rural song,

« Fill all the woods around with feftal roar,

Andfright the peaceful halcyons from my Thore?

* And see !—from Italy's degenerate clime

A

« The mottled hero fam'd in Pantomime,

• Leads his exulting crew with impious tread

To soil the dust that pillows SHAKESPEAR's head:

"With midnight sounds they break his sacred sleep,

And near his tomb opprobrious vigils keep.

• Resounding axes give the folar beam

· To scorch the borders of my lucid stream,

And, while around the weeping Dryads bleed,

• The sons of riot praise the fatal deed :

* Them it becomes to praise: but 'midst the throng - What honor'd voice is that which joins the song ? · Canst thou whose powers could give this wonder

- ing age " To see the soul of SHAKESPEAR grace the stage,

o Canft

• Canst thou misjudging, praise each cruel blow

• That lays the shade by Avon's current low, · Canst thou approve those trees untimely doom • That wave their foliage o'er thy SHAKESPEAR'S

tomb,

• Or view the motley sons of Masquerade

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• Insult thy patron's venerable shade?

< But hark! loud riot swells on every side,

And orgies dire pollute my virgin tide;

' Ah! let my ear the unhallow'd revels fly,
« Nor drink the sounds of midnight ribaldry.'
She said, and plunging in the silver wave,
Sought the calm refuge of her filent cave.

THE

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A Myrtle young and lovely stood,
Sole beauty of the wintry scene,

The 'fairest daughter of the wood:

Close by her side a Bramble grew,

Like other Brambles rude with thorn,

Who ficken'd at the pleasing view,

Yet what she envied seem'd to scorn:

Full oft to blast cach hated charm

She call’d the fiery bolts of Jove;

But Jove was too polite to harm

Aught sacred to the Queen of Love:

VOL. I.

G

Yet

Yet was her rage not wholly cross'd,

BOREAs was to her wishes kind,

And from his magazines of frost

He fummond forth the keenest wind.

A thousand clouds surcharg'd with rain

The ruffian god around him calls;

Then blows intenfe, and o'er the plain

A fleecy deluge instant falls:

No more the Myrtle bears the belle,

No more her leaves luxuriant shew,

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The thorny Bramble looks as well,

Powder'd, and perriwig'd with snow.

Sure some gray antiquated maid,

The very Bramble of her sex,

To each invidious power has pray'd,

Our eyes and senses to perplex.

Fashion

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