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Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze,
The silver flood, so lately calm, appears
Swell'd with new passion, and o'erflows with tears; The winds and trees and floods her death de
Daphne, our grief, our glory now no more!
But see! where Daphne wondering mounts on high
Above the clouds, above the starry sky!
How all things listen, while thy Muse complains!
In some still evening, when the whispering breeze
While plants their shade, or flowers their odours give,
Thy name, thy honour, and thy praise shall live!
But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews;
IN reading several passages of the prophet Isaiah, which foretell the coming of Christ, and the felicities attending it, I could not but observe a remarkable parity between many of the thoughts and those in the Pollio of Virgil. This will not seem surprising, when we reflect that the eclogue was taken from a sibylline prophecy on the same subject. One may judge that Virgil did not copy it line by line, but selected such ideas as best agreed with the nature of pastoral poetry, and disposed them in that manner which served most to beautify his piece. I have endeavoured the same in this imitation of him, though without admitting any thing of my own; since it was written with this particular view, that the reader, by comparing the several thoughts, might see how far the images and descriptions of the prophet are superior to those of the poet. But as I fear I have prejudiced them by my management, I shall subjoin the passages of Isaiah, and those of Virgil, under the same disadvantage of a literal translation.