Imatges de pàgina
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The filver-flipper'd Avon flowly rofe,

And penfive on her crystal urn reclin'd,

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

"What frantic train is this whofe noise invades

The accuftom'd ftilnefs of my tranquil fhades,

• Whose swelling clamors float

my banks along,

• And drown the sweetness of each rural song,

• Fill

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And fee !-from ITALY's degenerate clime The mottled hero fam'd in Pantomime, 'Leads his exulting crew with impious tread

To foil the duft that pillows SHAKESPEAR's head: • With midnight founds they break his facred sleep, And near his tomb opprobrious vigils keep. 'Refounding axes give the folar beam

To fcorch the borders of my lucid ftream,
And, while around the weeping Dryads bleed,
The fons of riot praife the fatal deed:-

• Them it becomes to praise: but 'midst the throng • What honor'd voice is that which joins the fong? • Canft thou whose powers could give this wonder

<ing age

To fee the foul of SHAKESPEAR grace the ftage,

• Canft

Canft thou misjudging, praife each cruel blow

That lays the fhade by Avon's current low,

• Canft thou approve thofe trees untimely doom

• That wave their foliage o'er thy SHAKESPEAR'S

⚫ tomb,

Or view the motley fons of Masquerade

• Infult thy patron's venerable fhade?
But hark! loud riot fwells on every fide,
And orgies dire pollute my virgin tide;

Ah! let my ear the unhallow'd revels fly,
• Nor drink the founds of midnight ribaldry.'
She faid, and plunging in the filver wave,
Sought the calm refuge of her filent cave.

THE

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Sole beauty of the wintry scene,

The fairest daughter of the wood:

Close by her fide a Bramble grew,

Like other Brambles rude with thorn,

Who ficken'd at the pleafing view,

Yet what the envied feem'd to fcorn:

Full oft to blaft each hated charm

She call'd the fiery bolts of JovE;

But Jove was too polite to harm

Aught facred 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 froft

He fummon'd forth the keeneft wind.

A thousand clouds furcharg'd with rain
The ruffian god around him calls;
Then blows intenfe, and o'er the plain
A fleecy deluge inftant falls:

No more the Myrtle bears the belle,

No more her leaves luxuriant fhew,

The thorny Bramble looks as well,

Powder'd, and perriwig'd with fnow.

Sure fome gray antiquated maid,

The very Bramble of her fex,

To each invidious power has pray'd,

Our

eyes

and fenfes to perplex.

1

Fashion

i

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