To heaven the turns in deep despair,
Her infants wonder at her prayer,
And, mingling tears they know not why,
Lift up their little hands, and cry.
O God! their moving forrows fee!
Support them, fweet Humanity!

IX.

Life, fill'd with grief's distressful train,
For ever afks the tear humane.
Behold, in yon unconscious grove,
The victims of ill-fated love!
Heard you that agonizing throe?
Sure this is not romantic woe l
The golden day of joy is o'er;

And now they part to meet no more.
Affift them, hearts from anguish free!

Affift them, fweet Humanity!

X.

Parent of virtue, if thine ear

Attend not now to forrow's cry;

If now the pity-streaming tear

Should haply on thy cheek be dry;

Indulge my votive strain, O fweet Humanity!

THE NIGHTINGALE.

As Phoebus darted forth his milder ray,

And length'ning fhades confess'd the short'ning day;
To Tiber's banks repair'd an am'rous fwain,
The love and envy of the neighb'ring plain,
To cool his heat, he fought the breezy grove;
To cool his heat, but more the heat of love :
To footh his cares on the foft lute he play'd;
But the foft lute refresh'd the lovely maid;
Confpiring elms their umbrage shed around,
Wav'd with applause, and liften'd to the found.
Sweet Philomel, the chorifter of love,
The mufical enchantrefs of the grove,
With wonder heard the fhepherd as he play'd,
And ftole, attentive, to the tuneful shade;
Perch'd o'er his head the fylvan Syren fate,
With envy burning, and with pride elate ;
Ambitiously she lent a lift'ning ear,

Charm'd with the very founds fhe dy'd to hear:

Each note, each flowing accent of the song,
She footh'd, and fweeten'd with her softer tongue;

Gently refin'd each imitated strain,

And paid him with his harmony again..

The shepherd wonder'd at the just replies,
At first mistaken for the vocal breeze;

But when he found his little rival near
Imbibing mufic both at eye and ear,
With a fublimer touch he swept the lute,
A fummons to the musical difpute;

The fummons fhe receiv'd, refolv'd to try,
And daring, warbled out a bold reply.

Now sweetest thoughts the gentle swain inspire,
And with a dying softness tune the lyre,
Echo the vernal mufic of the woods,

Warble the murmurs of the falling floods;
Thus fweet he fings, but fweetly fings in vain,
For Philomela breathes a fofter strain ;
With easier art fhe modulates each note,
More nat❜ral music melting in her throat:
Much he admir'd the magic of her tongue,
But more to find his lute and art outdone.
And now to loftier airs he tunes the strings.
And now to loftier airs his echo fings;

Though loud as thunder, though as swift as thought,
She reach'd the fwelling, caught the flying note;
In trembling treble, now in folemn base,

She show'd how nature could his art surpass.

Amaz'd, at length with rage the shepherd burn'd,
His admiration into anger turn'd;

Inflam'd, with emulating pride he stood,

And thus defy'd the charmer of the wood:

And wilt thou ftill my mufic immitate?

Then fee thy folly, and thy task is great :
For, know, more pow'rful lays remain unfung,
Lays far fuperior to thy mimic tongue.

If not this lute, this vanquish'd lute I swear
Shall never more delight the ravish'd ear;
But broke in fcatter'd fragments, ftrew the plain,
And mourn the glories which it could not gain.
He said, and as he said, his foul on fire,
With a difdainful air he struck the lyre;
Quick to the touch the tides of mufic flow,
Swell into strength, or melt away in woe:
Now raise the fhrilling trumpet's clanging jar,
And imitated thunders rouze the war;

Now foft'ning founds, and fadly pleafing ftrains,
Breathe out the lover's joys, and lover's pains.
He fung; and ceas'd her rival notes to hear,
As his dy'd lift'ning in the ambient air.
But now, too late, her noble, folly found,
Sad Philomela stood fubdu'd by found;

Though vanquish'd, yet with gen'rous ardour fill'd,
Ignobly still she fcorn'd to quit the field:

But flowly faint her pensive accents flow,

Weaken'd with grief, and overcharg'd with woe.
Again the tunes her voice, again she fings,
Strains ev'ry nerve, and quivers on her wings;
In vain her finking fpirits fade away,

And in a tuneful agony decay ;

Dying the fell, and as the strains expire,
Breath'd out her foul in anguish on the lyre,
Diffolv'd in transport, she refign'd her breath
And gain'd a living conqueft by her death.

DAY: A PASTORAL

BY CUNNINGHAM,

MORNING.

------Carpe diem.

Har.

I.

In the barn the tenant cock,

Close to partlet perch'd on high, Brifkly crows (the fhepherd's clock !) Jocund that the morning's nigh..

II.

Swiftly from the mountain's brow,
Shadow's, nurs'd by night, retire:

And the peeping fun-beam now
Paints with gold the village spire:
III.

Philomel forfakes the thorn,

Plaintive where the prates at night;