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And Philomel her custom'd oak forsook ;

And roses wan were wav'd by zephyrs weak,
As nature's self was sick;

And every lily droop'd its velvet head;

And groan'd each faded lawn, and leafless grove; Sad sympathy! yet sure his rightful meed,

Who charm'd all nature; well might Nature mourn Through all her sweets; and flow'r, and lawn, and shade,

All vocal grown, all weep MUSAEUS dead.

Here end we, Goddess: this your shepherd sang, All as his hands an ivy chaplet wove.

O! make it worthy of the sacred bard,
And make it equal to the shepherd's love.
Nor thou, MUSAEUS, from thine ear discard,
For well I ween thou hear'st my doleful song;
Whether 'mid angel troops, the stars among,
From golden harps thou call'st seraphic lays;
Or, anxious for thy dearest Virtue's fare,

Thou still art hovʼring o'er her tuneless sphere,
And mov'st some hidden spring her weal to raise.

Thus the fond swain on Doric oat essay'd, Manhood's prime honors downing on his cheek: Trembling he strove to court the tuneful maid With stripling arts, and dalliance all too weak;

Unseen, unheard, beneath an hawthorn shade.
But now dun clouds the welkin 'gan to streak;
And now down-dropt the larks, and ceas'd their
strain:

They ceas'd, and with them ceas'd the shepherd swain.

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THERE fled the fair, that all beholders charm'd,
Whose beauty fir'd us, and whose spirit warm'd !
In that sad sigh th' unwilling breath retir'd;
The grace, the glory of our scene expir'd!
And shall she die, the muse's rites unpaid,
No grateful lays to deck her parting shade ?
While on her bier the sister graces mourn,
And weeping tragedy bedews her urn?
While comedy her chearful vein foregoes,
And learns to melt with unaccustom'd woes?

Accept (O once admir'd!) these artless lays;
Accept this mite of tributary praise.
O! could I paint thee with a master's hand,
And give thee all thy merits could demand;

These lines should glow with true poetic flame,
Bright as thy eyes, and faultless as thy frame!

We mourn'd thy absence, from our scene retir'd, Each longing heart again thy charms desir'd. Yet, still, alas! we hop'd again to view Our wish, our pleasure, ev'ry joy in you! Again thy looks might grace the tragic rage; Again thy spirit fill the comic stage. But lo! disease hangs hovʼring o'er thy head; Dire danger stalks around thy frighted bed! Those starry eyes have lost each beamy ray, And ghastly sickness makes the fair her prey! Death shuts the scene!-and all our hopes are o'er ! Those beauties now must glad the sight no more!

Say ye, whose features youthful lustre bloom,
Whose lips exhale Arabia's soft perfume,
Must ev'ry gift in silent dust be lost,

No more the wish of man, or female boast ?
Ah me! with time must ev'ry grace be fled!
She, once the pride of all our stage, is dead!
Clos'd are those eyes that ev'ry bosom fir'd;
Pale are those charms that ev'ry heart inspir'd!
Where now the mien with majesty endu❜d,
Which oft surpriz'd a ravish'd audience view'd?

What forms too oft the tragic scene disgrace; What tasteless airs the comic scene deface?

Tho' tuneful Cibber still the muse sustains,
By nature fram'd to pour the moving strains,
Tho' from her eye each heart-felt passion breaks,
And more than music warbles when she speaks;
When shall we view again, like thine, conjoin'd,
A form angelic and a piercing mind;

Alike in ev'ry mimic scene to steer,

The gay, the grave, the lively, and severe.
Thy judgment saw, thy taste each beauty caught,
No senseless parrot of the poet's thought!
Thy bosom well cou'd heave with fancy'd woe,
And, from thy own, our tears were taught to flow.
Whene'er we view'd the Roman's sullied fame,
Thy beauty justify'd the hero's shame.

What heart but then must Antony approve,
And own the world was nobly lost for love?
What ears cou'd hear in vain thy cause implor'd,
When soothing arts appeas'd thy angry lord?
Each tender breast the rough Ventidius blam'd,
And Egypt gain'd the sigh Octavia claim'd.
Thy eloquence each hush'd attention drew,
While love usurp'd the tears to virtue due.

See! Phaedra rise majestic o'er the scene, What raging pangs distract the hapless queen! How does thy sense the poet's thought refine, Beam thro' each word, and brighten ev'ry line! What nerve, what vigor glows in ev'ry part, While classic lays appear with classic art!

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