O why, Britannia, why untrophied pass
The patriot deeds thy godlike Sons display,
Why breathes on high no monumental brass,
Why fwells no Arc to grace Culloden's day?

Wait we 'till faithlefs France fubmiffive bow
Beneath that Hero's delegated fpear,

Whofe light'ning fmote Rebellion's haughty brow,
And scatter'd her vile rout with horror in the rear?

O Land of Freedom, Land of Arts, assume
That graceful dignity thy merits claim;
Exalt thy Heroes like imperial Rome,

And build their virtues on their love of fame.

So fhall the modeft worth, which checks my friend,
Forget its blush when rous'd by Glory's charms;
From breast to breast the generous warmth descend,
And still new trophies rise, at once, to Arts, and Arms.

To

'T

淡淡

ELE GYV.

a FRIEND Sick.

Written at ROME 1756.

WAS in this b ifle, O Wright indulge my lay,

Whofe naval form divides the Tuscan flood,

In the bright dawn of her illustrious day
Rome fix'd her Temple to the healing God.

Here ftood his altars, here his arm he bared,
And round his mystic staff the ferpent twin'd,
Through crowded portals hymns of praise were heard,
And victims bled, and facred feers divin'd.

On every breathing wall, on every round
Of column, fwelling with proportion'd grace,

'Its ftated feat fome votive tablet found,

And ftoried wonders dignified the place.

b The Infula Tiberina, where there are still fome Small remains of the famous temple of Afculapius.

Oft

Oft from the balmy bleffings of repose,

And the cool ftillness of the night's deep shade,
To light and health th' exulting Votarist rofe,
Whilft fancy work'd with med'cine's powerful aid.

Oft in his dreams (no longer clogg'd with fears
Of fome broad torrent, or fome headlong steep,
With each dire form Imagination wears

When harrafs'd Nature finks in turbid sleep)

Oft in his dreams he saw diffusive day

Through bursting glooms its chearful beams extend;
On billowy clouds faw sportive Genii play,
And bright Hygeia from her heaven descend.

What marvel then, that man's o'erflowing mind
Should wreath-bound columns raise, and altars fair,
And grateful offerings pay, to Powers so kind,
Tho' fancy-form'd, and creatures of the Air.

Who that has writh'd beneath the fcourge of pain,
Or felt the burthen'd languor of disease,

But would with joy the flighteft respite gain,
And idolize the hand which lent him ease?

To Thee, my friend, unwillingly to thee
For truths like these the anxious Muse appeals.
Can Memory answer from affliction free,

Or fpeaks the fufferer what, I fear, he feels?

No, let me hope ere this in Romely grove
Hygeia revels with the blooming Spring,
Ere this the vocal feats the Mufes love

With hymns of praise, like Pæon's temple, ring.

It was not written in the book of Fate

That, wand'ring far from Albion's fea-girt plain, Thy distant Friend should mourn thy shorter date, And tell to alien woods and ftreams his pain.

It was not written. Many a year shall roll,
If aught th' infpiring Muse aright prefage,
Of blameless intercourfe from Soul to Soul,
And friendship well matur'd from Youth to Age.

ELE GY VI.

To

another

FRIEN D.

B

Written at ROME 1756.

EHOLD, my friend, to this fmall c orb confin'd,

The genuine features of Aurelius' face;

The father, friend, and lover of his kind,
Shrunk to a narrow coin's contracted space.

The medal of Marcus Aurelius.

Not

Not fo his fame; for erft did heaven ordain

Whilft feas should waft us, and whilft funs fhould warm,

On tongues of men, the friend of man should reign,
And in the arts he lov'd the patron charm.

Oft as amidst the mould'ring spoils of Age,
His mofs-grown monuments my steps pursue;
Oft as my eye revolves the hiftoric page,

Where pass his generous acts in fair review,

Imagination grafps at mighty things,

Which men, which angels might with rapture fee; Then turns to humbler scenes its fafer wings,

And, blush not whilft I fpeak it, thinks on thee.

With all that firm benevolence of mind

Which pities whilft it blames th' unfeeling vain,
With all that active zeal to ferve mankind,
That tender fuffering for another's pain,

Why wert not thou to thrones imperial rais'd,
Did heedlefs Fortune flumber at thy birth,
Or on thy virtues with indulgence gaz'd,!
And gave her grandeurs to her fons of earth?

Happy for thee, whose lefs diftinguish'd sphere
Now chears in private the delighted eye,
For calm Content, and smiling Ease are there,
And, Heaven's divineft gift, fweet Liberty.

Happy