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To melancholy vaults repair, With aching, sicken'd, cold review, Bid every sorrow stream anew; Here may'st thou weep thy favourite Rome, Sad-sighing o'er each martyr's tomb: Meek Pity, Attic maid, shall join Her tender social tears with thine, O’er every urn fresh laurels strow, And fondly emulate thy woe. Or wouldst thou newer worlds survey, Where darkness holds her barren sway; Where ne'er the Muse's chaplet blew; Where Learning's laurel never grew; Where Nature to our wond'ring eyes Each salutary herb supplies; Where flowers their fragrant sweets diffuse; Where trees distil their kindly dews; And, blest with ev'ry power to heal, Soft slumbers o'er the senses steal. In such enchanting, artless scenes, 'Mid bowery mazes, spreading greens, Sooth'd by the breezy western gale, In scented grove, or rocky dale, Or wand'ring from the russet cot, To seek the deep-embosom'd grot, Beneath the orange shade inclos'd, Or in the myrtle bower repos’d, Or where the flaunting flowers have wove With mingled sweets the high alcove,
Each Indian wooes his favourite mate;
Fancy such raptures shall suggest,
Where boundless Oroonoko fills
Should Nature's simple beauties fail, And Art's gay. structures more prevail, Here too the polish'd dome is plac’d, With each Vitruvian beauty grac’d: Or wouldst thou at the early dawn Transport thee to the dew-clad lawn: Or from the mid-day fervor rove Beneath the silent plantane grove : Or with the fairy elves be seen In dances on the level green: Should baleful War, 'mid loud alarms, 'Mid vanquish'd foes, and conquering arms, 'Mid hosts o’erthrown, and myriads slain, On Britain fix his iron reign: Should Jove's fair daughter, oliv'd Peace, Bid the wild battle's tumult cease; In polish'd ease you still shall share Thy kind protector's fostering care;
His faithful love shall still appear,
Thou too shalt all his toils repay,
BY MRS. CARTER.
The solitary Bird of Night
And quits the time-shook tow'r:
Beneath his ivy bow'r.
With joy I hear the solemn sound,
And sighing gales repeat:
At Wisdom's awful seat.
She loves the cool, the silent eve,
Beneath the lunar ray:
As in the glare of day.