BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ.
On entering the Campania of Rome, at Otricoli, 1755.
HAIL, sacred Stream, whose waters roll
Immortal through the classic page!
To Thee, the Muse-devoted soul,
Though destin'd to a later age
And less indulgent clime, to Thee,
Nor thou disdain, in runic lays,
Weak mimic of true harmony,
His grateful homage pays.
Far other strains thine elder ear
With pleas'd attention wont to hear,
When he, who strung the Latian lyre,
And he, who led th' Aonian quire
From Mantua's reedy lakes with osier's crown'd, Taught Echo from thy banks with transport to resound. Thy banks-alas! is this the boasted scene, This dreary, wide, uncultivated plain, Where sick'ning Nature wears a fainter green, And Desolation spreads her torpid reign?
Is this the scene where Freedom breath'd,
Her copious horn where Plenty wreath'd,
And Health at opening day
Bade all her roseate breezes fly,
To wake the sons of Industry,
And make their fields more gay?
Where is the villa's rural pride,
The swelling dome's imperial gleam,
Which lov'd to grace the verdant side,
And tremble in thy golden stream ?
Where are the bold, the busy throngs,
That rush'd impatient to the war,
Or tun'd to peace triumphal songs,
And hail'd the passing car?
Along the solitary road,
The eternal flint by Consuls trod,
We muse, and mark the sad decays
Of mighty works, and mighty days.
For these vile wastes, we cry, had Fate decreed That Veii's sons should strive, for these Camillus bleed? Did here, in after-times of Roman pride,
The musing shepherd from Soracte's height
See towns extend where'er thy waters glide,
And temples rise, and peopled farms unite?
They did. For this deserted plain
The Hero strove, nor strove in vain;
And here the shepherd saw
Unnumber'd towns and temples sprea,d
While Rome majestic rear'd her head,
And gave the nations law.
Yes, Thou and Latium once were great,
And still, ye first of human things,
Beyond the grasp of time or fate
Her fame and thine triumphant springs.
What though the mould'ring columns fall,`
And strow the desert earth beneath,
Though ivy round each nodding wall
Entwine its fatal wreath,
Yet say, can Rhine or Danube boast
The numerous glories thou hast lost?
Can ev'n Euphrates' palmy shore,
Or Nile, with all his mystic lore,
Produce from old records of genuine fame
Such heroes, poets, kings, or emulate thy name?
Ev'n now the Muse, the conscious Muse is here;
From every ruin's formidable shade
Eternal Music breathes on Fancy's ear,
And wakes to more than form th' illustrious dead.
Thy Cæsars, Scipios, Catos rise,
The great, the virtuous, and the wise,
In solemn state advance!
They fix the philosophic eye,
Or trail the robe, or lift on high
The lightning of the lance.
But chief that humbler happier train
Who knew those virtues to reward
Beyond the reach of chance or pain
Secure, th' historian and the bard.
By them the heroe's generous rage
Still warm in youth immortal lives;
And in their adamantine page
Thy glory still survives.
Through deep Savannahs wild and vast,
Unheard, unknown through ages past,
Beneath the sun's directer beams
What copious torrents pour their streams!
No fame have they, no fond pretence to mourn,
No annals swell their pride, or grace their storied urn.
Whilst Thou, with Rome's exalted genius join'd,
Her spear yet lifted, and her corslet brac'd,
Canst tell the waves, canst tell the passing wind,
Thy wondrous tale, and cheer the list'ning waste.
Though from his caves th' unfeeling North
Pour'd all his legion'd tempests forth,
Yet still thy laurels bloom:
One deathless glory still remains,
Thy stream has roll'd through LATIAN plains,
Has wash'd the walls of ROME.
MONTAUBAN IN FRANCE, 1750.
BY THE REV. JOSEPH WARTON, D.D.
TARN, how delightful wind thy willow'd waves,
But ah! they fructify a land of slaves!
In vain thy bare-foot, sun-burnt peasants hide
With luscious grapes yon hill's romantic side;
No cups nectareous shall their toils repay,
The priest's, the soldier's, and the fermier's prey:
Vain glows this sun in cloudless glory drest,
That strikes fresh vigour through the pining breast;
Give me, beneath a colder, changeful sky,
My soul's best, only pleasure, LIBERTY!
What millions perish'd near thy mournful flood
When the red papal tyrant cry'd out- Blood !'
Less fierce the Saracen, and quiver'd Moor,
That dash'd thy infants 'gainst the stones of yore.
Be warn'd, ye nations round; and trembling see
Dire superstition quench humanity!
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