And wakes to more than form th' illuftrious dead.

Thy Cæfars, Scipios, Catos rife,

The great, the virtuous, and the wife,

In folemn state advance!

They fix the philofophic eye,

Or trail the robe, or lift on high

The light'ning of the lance.
IV.

But chief that humbler happier train
Who knew thofe virtues to reward
Beyond the reach of chance or pain
Secure, th' hiftorian and the bard,
By them the hero's generous rage

Still warm in youth immortal lives;
And in their adamantine page

Thy glory ftill furvives.

Thro' deep Savannahs wild and vaft,
Unheard, unknown thro' ages past,
Beneath the fun's directer beams

What copious torrents pour their streams!
No fame have they, no fond pretence to mourn,
No annals fwell their pride, or grace their ftoried urn,
Whilft Thou, with Rome's exalted genius joins,
Her fpear yet lifted, and her corflet brac'd,
Can't tell the waves, can't tell the paffing wind
Thy wond'rous tale, and cheer the lift'ning wafte,
Tho' from his caves th' unfeeling North
Pour'd all his legion'd tempefts forth,

Yet

Yet ftill thy laurels bloom:

One deathless glory ftill remains,

Thy ftream has roll'd thro' LATIAN plains,
Has wash'd the walls of RoME.

S

CHAMPAGNE, 1754.

ILENT and clear, thro' yonder peaceful vale,
While Marne's flow waters weave their mazy way,

See, to th' exulting fun, and foft'ring gale,

What boundless treasures his rich banks display!

Faft by the ftream, and at the mountain's base,
The lowing herds thro' living pastures rove;
Wide -waving harvefts crown the rifing space;
And still fuperior nods the viny grove.

High

High on the top, as guardian of the fcene,
Imperial Sylvan fpreads his umbrage wide;
Nor wants there many a cot, and spire between,
Or in the vale, or on the mountain's fide,

To mark that Man, as tenant of the whole,
Claims the juft tribute of his culturing care,
Yet pays to Heaven, in gratitude of foul,

The boon which Heaven accepts, of praife and prayer.

O dire effects of war! the time has been

When Desolation vaunted here her reign; One ravag'd defart was yon beauteous fcene, And Marne ran purple to the frighted Seine.

Oft at his work the toilfome day to cheat

The fwain ftill talks of thofe difaftrous times, When Guife's pride, and Condé's ill-star'd heat Taught christian zeal to authorize their crimes:

Oft to his children fportive on the grafs

Does dreadful tales of worn Tradition tell,

Oft points to Epernay's ill-fated pass

Where Force thrice triumph'd, and where Biron fell.

O dire effects of war!-may ever more

Thro' this fweet vale the voice of discord cease!

A British bard to Gallia's fertile fhore

1

Can wish the bleffings of eternal peace.

Yet

Yet fay, ye monks, (beneath whofe mofs-grown fea,
Within whofe cloifter'd cells th' indebted Mufe
Awhile fojourns, for meditation meet,

And these loose thoughts in pensive strain pursues,)

Avails it aught, that War's rude tumult fpare
Yon cluster'd vineyard, or yon golden field,
If niggards to yourselves, and fond of care,
You flight the joys their copious treasures yield?

Avails it aught that Nature's liberal hand

With every bleffing grateful man can know
Cloaths the rich bofom of yon fmiling land,
The mountain's floping fide, or pendant brow,

If meagre Famine paint your pallid cheek,

If breaks the midnight bell your hours of reft,
If 'midft heart-chilling damps, and winter bleak,
You fhun the cheerful bowl, and moderate feaft!

Look forth, and be convinc'd! 'tis Nature pleads,
Her ample volume opens on your view,
The fimple-minded fwain, who running reads,
Feels the glad truth, and is it hid from you?

Look forth, and be convinc'd. Yon profpects wide
To Reason's ear how forcibly they speak

Compar'd with thofe how dull is letter'd Pride,
And Auftin's babbling Eloquence how weak!

Temp'rance,

Temp'rance, not Abftinence, in every blifs

Is Man's true joy, and therefore Heaven's command. The wretch who riots thanks his God amifs : Who ftarves, rejects the bounties of his hand.

Mark, while the Marne in yon full channel glides,
How smooth his courfe, how Nature fmiles around!
But should impetuous torrents fwell his tides,

The fairy landskip finks in oceans drown'd.

Nor lefs difaftrous fhould his thrifty urn
Neglected leave the once well-water'd land,
To dreary waftes yon paradife would turn,
Polluted ooze, or heaps of barren fand.

EL

EGY II.

*

On the MAUSOLEUM of AUGUSTUS.

To the Right Honourable

George Buffy Villiers, Viscount Villiers.

A

Written at ROME, 1756.

MID these mould'ring walls, this marble round,
Where slept the Heroes of the Julian name,

Say, fhall we linger ftill in thought profound,
And meditate the mournful paths to fame?
* It is now a garden belonging to Marchefe di Corré.

What