• For these vile waftes,' we cry, had Fate decreed,
That Veii's fons fhould ftrive; for thefe Camillus bleed?
Did here, in after-times of Roman pride,
The mufing fhepherd from Soracte's height,
• See towns extend where'er thy waters glide,
• And temples rife, and peopled farms unite?"
They did. For this deserted plain
The hero ftrove, nor ftrove in vain ;
And here the fhepherd faw
Unnumber'd towns and temples spread,
While Rome majestick rear'd her head,
And gave the nations law.
Yes, thou and Latium once were great.
And ftill, ye first of human things,
Beyond the grasp of time or fate
Her fame and thine triumphant springs.
What tho' the mould'ring columns fall,
And ftrow the defart earth beneath;
Tho' ivy round each nodding wall
Entwine it's fatal wreath;
Yet fay, can Rhine or Danube boast
The numerous glories thou haft loft?
Can e'en Euphrates' palmy shore,
Or Nile, with all his myftick lore,
Produce from old records of genuine fame
Such heroes, poets, kings, or emulate thy name?
E'en now the Muse, the conscious Muse is here;
From every ruin's formidable fhade
Eternal mufick breathes on Fancy's ear,
And wakes to more than form th' illuftrious dead.
Thy Cæfars, Scipio's, Cato's, rise;
The great, the virtuous, and the wife,
In folemn ftate advance!
They fix the philofophick eye,
Or trail the robe, or lift on high
The lightning of the lance.
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 favannahs 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 storied urn.
Whilft thou, with Rome's exalted Genius join'd,
Her fpear yet lifted, and her corflet brac'd,
Canft tell the waves, canft tell the paffing wind,
Thy wond'rous tale, and chear the lift'ning wafte.
Tho' from his caves th' unfeeling North
Pour'd all his legion'd tempefts forth,
Yet ftill thy laurels bloom:
One deathless glory ftill remains;
Thy ftream has roll'd thro' Latian plains,
Has wafh'd the walls of Rome.
WRITTEN AT THE CONVENT OF HAUT VILLERS IN CHAMPAGNE, MDCC LIV.
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 bafe,
The lowing herds thro' living pastures rove;
Wide waving harvests crown the rifing space,
And ftill fuperior nods the viny grove.
High on the top, as guardian of the scene,
Imperial Sylvan spreads 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 just tribute of his culturing care,
Yet pays to Heaven, in gratitude of foul,
The boon which Heaven accepts, of praise and prayer.
O dire effects of war! the time has been
When defolation 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 difaft'rous times, When Guife's pride, and Conde's ill-starr'd heat, Taught Chriftian 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 difcord ceafe!
A British bard to Gallia's fertile fhore
Can wish the bleffings of eternal peace.
Yet fay, ye monks, (beneath whofe mofs-grown feat,
Within whofe cloifter'd cells th' indebted Mufe
Awhile fojourns, for meditation meet,
And these loose thoughts in penfive strain pursues)
Avails it aught, that war's rude tumults fpare
Yon cluster'd vineyard, or yon golden field;
If, niggards to yourfelves, 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 chearful bowl, and moderate feaft?
Look forth, and be convinc'd! 'tis Nature pleads,
Her ample volume opens on your view:
The fimple-minded swain, who running reads,
Feels the glad truth, and is it hid from you?
Look forth, and be convinc'd! Yon profpects wide,
To reafon's ear how forcibly they speak:
Compar'd with those how dull is letter'd pride,
And Auftin's babbling eloquence how weak!
Temp'rance, not abftinence, in every bliss
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 smiles around!
But should impetuous torrents fwell his tides,
The fairy landscape finks in oceans drown'd.
Nor lefs difaft'rous, fhould his thrifty urn
Neglected leave the once well-water'd land;
To dreary wastes yon paradise would turn,
Polluted ooze, or heaps of barren fand.
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