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. But chief that humbler happier train Still warm in youth immortal lives; Thy glory ftill furvives. Thro' deep Savannahs wild and vaft, What copious torrents pour their streams! Yet Yet ftill thy laurels bloom: One deathless glory ftill remains, Thy ftream has roll'd thro' LATIAN plains, S CHAMPAGNE, 1754. ILENT and clear, thro' yonder peaceful vale, 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, High High on the top, as guardian of the fcene, To mark that Man, as tenant of the whole, 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, And these loose thoughts in pensive strain pursues,) Avails it aught, that War's rude tumult fpare Avails it aught that Nature's liberal hand With every bleffing grateful man can know If meagre Famine paint your pallid cheek, If breaks the midnight bell your hours of reft, Look forth, and be convinc'd! 'tis Nature pleads, Look forth, and be convinc'd. Yon profpects wide Compar'd with thofe how dull is letter'd Pride, 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, The fairy landskip finks in oceans drown'd. Nor lefs difaftrous fhould his thrifty urn 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, Say, fhall we linger ftill in thought profound, What |