Through all the lovely realms of native day,
Through all the circled land, and circling sea;
With fertile feed fhe fill'd the pervious earth,
And ever fix'd the mystic ways of birth.

Let thofe love now, who never lov'd before;
Let thofe who always lov'd, now love the more.
'Twas the the parent, to the Latian shore
Through various dangers Troy's remainder bore.
She won Lavinia for her warlike fon,

And, winning her, the Latian empire won.
She gave to Mars the maid, whofe honour'd womb
Swell'd with the founder of immortal Rome.
Decoy'd by fhows, the Sabine dames she led,
And taught our vigorous youth the way to wed.
Hence fprung the Romans, hence the race divine
Through which great Cæfar draws his Julian line.
Let thofe love now, who never lov'd before;
Let those who always lov'd, now love the more.

In rural feats the foul of pleasure reigns;

The life of Beauty fills the rural scenes ;
Ev'n Love (if Fame the truth of Love declare)
Drew firft the breathings of a rural air.
Some pleafing meadow pregnant Beauty preft,
She laid her infant on its flowery breast,
From Nature's sweets he fipp'd the fragrant dew,
He finil'd, he kifs'd them, and by kiffing grew.
Let thofe love now, who never lov'd before;
Let thofe who always lov'd, now love the more.
Now bulls o'er stalks of broom extend their fides,
Secure of favours from their lowing brides.

Now ftately rams their fleecy conforts lead,

Who bleating follow through the wandering fhade.
And now the Goddess bids the birds appear,
Raife all their music, and falute the year :
Then deep the fwan begins, and deep the song
Runs o'er the water where he fails along :
While Philomela turns a treble strain,
And from the poplar charms the listening plain,
We fancy love expreft at every note,

It melts, it warbles, in her liquid throat.
Of barbarous Tereus she complains no more,
But fings for pleasure, as for grief before.
And still her graces rise, her airs extend,
And all is filence till the Syren end.

How long in coming is my lovely Spring!
And when shall I, and when the swallow fing?
Sweet Philomela, ceafe:-Or here I fit,
And filent lofe my rapturous hour of wit:
"Tis gone, the fit retires, the flames decay,
My tuneful Phoebus flies averfe away.
His own Amycle thus, as stories run,
But once was filent, and that once undone.

Let thofe love now, who never lov'd before
Let those who always lov'd, now love the more.

HOMER'S

HOMER'S

BATTLE OF THE FROGS, &

BOOK I.

To fill my rifing fong with facred fire,
Ye tuneful Nine, ye fweet celeftial quire!
From Helicon's imbowering height repair,
Attend my labours, and reward my prayer;
The dreadful toils of raging Mars I write,
The fprings of contest, and the fields of fight;
How threatening mice advanc'd with warlike grace,
And wag'd dire combats with the croaking race.
Not louder tumults fhook Olympus' towers,
When earth-born giants dar'd immortal powers.
Thefe equal acts an equal glory claim,

And thus the Mufe records the tale of fame.

Once on a time, fatigued and out of breath, And juft efcap'd the ftretching claws of death, A gentle Mouse, whom cats pursued in vain, Fled swift of foot across the neighbouring plain, Hung o'er a brink, his eager thirst te cool, And dipp'd his whiskers in the standing pool ; When near a courteous Frog advanc'd his head; And from the waters, hoarfe-refounding, faid, What art thou, stranger? what the line you boast ? What chance has caft thee panting on our coak? With strictest truth let all thy words agree, Nor let me find a faithlefs Moufe in thee.