From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design,
Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast!
The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line,

Thro' the dark cave in, gleamy pageant past.
Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told,
Could once so well my answ'ring bosom pierce;
Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colour bold,

The native legends of thy land rehearse; To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy pow'rful verse. In scenes like these, which daring to depart From sober Truth, are still to Nature true, And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view, Th' heroic Muse employ'd her TASSO'S art! How have I trembl'd, when, at Tancred's stroke,

Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd! When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast upheav'd the vanish'd sword! How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind, To hear his harp by British FAIRFAX Strung! Prevailing Poet! whose undoubting mind,

Believ'd the magic wonders which he sung ! Hence, at each sound, imagination glows!

Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here! Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows! Melting it flows, pure, murm'ring, strong and clear, And fills th' impassion'd heart, and wins th' harmoni

ous ear!

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail!
Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away,

Are by smooth Annan fill'd, or pastoral Tay, Or Don's romantic springs, at distance, hail! The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread Your lowly glens, o'erhung with spreading broom; Or o'er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led;

Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom! Then will I dress once more the faded bow'r, Where Jonson sat in Drummond's classic shade; Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flow'r,

And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy 's laid! Meantime, ye Pow'rs that on the plains which bore The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains, attend lWhere'er HOME dwells, on hill, or lowly moor, To him I lose, your kind protection lend,

And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my absent

friend!

ΤΟ

THE TIBER.

WRITTEN ABROAD,

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