If Amaryllis, charm'd by Colin's Verfe, Can fhed fuch Floods of Tears upon his Hearfe, Who then can guess the Pain, the anxious Throws Which the dear Partner of his Pleafure knows? What Agonies of Woe rend Daphne's Breast ? She whom he lov'd, and he who lov'd him best ! Methinks I hear her to her Babe complain, The only Relict of her darling Swain:
The Child he tells his ev'ry Art and Grace, And with her Tears bedews the Infant's Face; Whilft the poor Babe, unknowing of her Cares, Cooes in her Face, and smiles at all her Tears.
ODE
Sacred to the Memory of
N. ROWE, Efq;
Hile o'er thy Hearfe, with fad Surprize,
And folemn Grief the Mufes mourn;
Permit a Stranger's flowing Eyes
To shed their Sorrows round thy Urn.
Ja in the Bloom of all thy Fame, Then to affert thy Native Sky; Abfolves Impartial Heaven from Blame, And feems, as 'twas thy Choice, to Die.
Thus the great FJULUS ceas'd to Live,
Thro' vanquish'd Worlds his Eagles bores Thus clos'd his Fame, when Fate cou'd give,
And his bright Sword command no more.
With Smiles he views the glitt'ring Blade, In that great Moment fond to Die; When ROME beheld her Hero's Shade But mount the fairer up the Sky.
What penfive Mufe, now THOU art fled, Shall o'er Pharfalia's Warriors mourn, Whofe Voice lament the Pious Dead,
And kindly weep o'er POMPEY's Urn?
Whofe foft relenting Verfe fhall Iwell Each Roman Heart with confcious Woe; Her Genius fled, ROME's Sorrow tell, And CESAR dying o'er his Foe?
Round his great Rival's awful Head He views a Glory ftill furvive; Sighing that Fame and Virtue dead. He cou'd not own, or fcorn'd alive!
*The Excellent Translation of Lucan by Mr. Rowe.
+ Cæfar is reported by the Poet to have wept, when Pom3
pey's Head was brought to him in Ægypt.
Nor mingling with the God-like Hoft, Who at Philippi greatly fell;
Each Roman thanks thy pious Ghoft, That fung his Arms, and Fate fo well.
The Fields of Death once more to ftain, What future Hero will refufe? Or Dying, dread One Moment's Pain, To Live for ever in thy Muse?
But far, O far before the reft, Great CATO does his Arm extend?
And in his Smiles his Love confest,
Adores thy Shade, and calls THEE Friend.
Well pleas'd, with every Grace adorn'd, So like his Own, a-mind to fee!
And the great Homage which He scorn'd To CÆSAR's Sword, He pays to THEE.
New Tranfport does his Breaft dilate, Within his Soul new Paffions rife ; To view Rome's Wounds, and POMPEr's Fate, So kindly wept by ENGLIH Eyes.
While taught by Thee, Britannia's Ille His Hero's Fall relenting views ; He feems beneath his Wounds to fmile, And CÆSAR's self at last subdues.
Africk's rich Defarts in thy Strains, Ennoble with the Patriot's Doom; Excel the flow'ry Latain Plains,
And LYBIA triumphs over ROME.
Wofe grateful Sons to moan the Brave, Despairing in thy Mufe are feen; Hiding each faithful Warrior's Grave With friendly Tears, and blooming Green.
In Words like thine, had they a Choice Once more above their Fate to try, Thus, with their laft expiring Voice, Wou'd each lament his Rome, and Die.
Surprize or Joy alike to yield,
Thy various artful Mufe was made; To drefs the Warrior for the Field, Or paint the Lover in his Shade.
Now in the eager Chace of Fame, With fome brave Chief you upward fly; Now fink, and teach fome Virgin Name In fofter Numbers how to Die!
Thofe Forms, which to our wondring Mind Thy Fancy paints, new Glories wear: While Love and Friendship feem more kind, And Beauty's felf appears more Fair.
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