Behold in yon unconscious grove,
The victims of ill-fated love!
Heard you that agonizing throe?
Sure this is no romantic woe!
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 sweet Humanity!

THE NIGHTINGALE.

AS Phoebus darted forth his milder ray,

[day

And length'ning shades confess'd the short'ning

To Tiber's banks repair'd an am'rous swain,
The love and envy of the neighbouring 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 spread around,
Wav'd with applaufe, and liften'd to the found.
Sweet Philomel, the chorister of love,
The mufical enchantress of the grove,

With wonder heard the fhepherd as he play'd,
And ftole, attentive, to the tuneful fhade.
Perch'd o'er his head the filver Syren fate,
With envy burning, and with pride elate
Ambitiously the lent a lift'ning ear,

Charm'd with the very founds the dy'd to hear:
Each note, each flowing accent of the fong,
She footh'd, and fweeten'd with her fofter tongue,
Gently refin'd each imitated strain,

And paid him with his harmony again.
The thepherd 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 fwept the lute,
A fummons to the mufical difpute.

The fummons the receiv'd, refolv'd to try;
And, daring, warb'ed out a bold reply.
Now fweeteft thoughts the gentle fwain infpire ;
And with a dying foftnefs tune the lyre;
Echo, the vernal mufic of the woods,
Warbles the murmurs of the falling floods.
Thus fweet he fings, but fweetly fings in vain,
For Philomela breathes a fofter ftrain;
With easier art the modulates each note,
More nat'ral mufic 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 fwift as thought,
She reach'd the fwelling, caught the flying note;
In trembling treble, now in folemn bass,
She fhew'd how nature could his art furpass..

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

Inflam'd, with emulating pride he ftood,
And thus defy'd the charmer of the wood:
And wilt thou ftill my mufic imitate?
Then fee thy folly, and thy task is great:
For know, more powerful lays remain unsung,
Lays far fuperior to thy mimic tongue.
If not, this lute, this vanquifh'd lute, I swear
Shall never more delight the ravish'd ear;
But, broke in scatter'd fragments ftrew the plain,
And mourn the glories which it could not gain.
He faid and as he faid, his foul on fire,
With a disdainful air he ftruck the lyre.
Quick to the touch the tides of mufic flow,
Swell into strength, or melt away in woe;
Now raise the thrilling trumpet's clanging jar,
And imitated thunders roufe the war:

Now foft'ning founds, and fadly pleasing strains,
Breathe out the lover's joys, and lover's pains.
He fung; and ceas'd hier 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 vanquith'd, yet with gen'rous ardour fill'd,
Ignobly ftill the fcorn'd to quit the field;
But flowly faint, her penfive accents flow,
Weaken'd with grief, and overcharg'd with woe.
Again the tunes her voice, again the 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 anguifli on the lyre;

Diffolv'd in transport, fhe refign'd her breath, And gain'd a living conquest by her death.

IN the barn the tenant cock,

Clofe 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,
Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire;
And the peeping fun-beam now
Paints with gold the village fpire:

III.

Philomel forfakes the thorn,

Plaintive where the prates at night;
And the lark, to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's fight..

IV.

From the low-roof'd cottage ridge,
See the chatt'ring fwallow spring
Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick the dips her dappled wing.

V.

Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently greets the morning gale :
Kidlings, now, begin to crop
Daifies on the dewy dale.

VI.

From the balmy sweet uncloy'd,
(Reftlefs, till her task be done)
Now the bufy bee's employ'd,
Sipping dew before the fun.

VII.

Trickling through the crevic'd rock, Where the limpid ftream diftils, Sweet refreshment waits the flock, When 'tis fun-drove from the hills.

VIII.

Colin's for the promis'd corn
(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe)
Anxious-while the huntsman's horn,
Boldly founding, drowns his pipe.