Alas! that youth from Lindamira far
For newer conquefts wages cruel war;
With other nymphs on other plains he roams,
Where injur'd Lindamira never comes;
Laughs at her eafy faith, infults her woe,
Nor pities tears himself had taught to flow.
And now her eye's foft radiance feem'd to fail, And now the crimson of her cheek grew pale; The lilly there, in faded beauty, fhews Its fickly empire o'er the vanquifh'd rofe. Devouring forrow marks her for his prey, And flow and certain mines his filent way. Yet, as apace her ebbing life declin'd, Increafing ftrength fuftain'd her firmer mind. "O had my heart been, hard as his," fhe cried, "An hapless victim thus I had not died: "If there be gods, and gods there surely are, "Infulted virtue doubtlefs is their care.
"Then haften righteous Heaven! my tedious fate, "Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date:
Quick let your power transform this failing frame, "Let me be any thing but what I am!
"And fince the cruel woes I'm doom'd to feel, "Proceed, alas! from having lov'd too well; "Grant me fome form where love can have no part, "Nor human weakness reach my guarded heart. "If pity has not left your bleft abodes, "Change me to flinty adamant, ye Gods; "To hardest rock, or monumental stone, "Rather than let me know the pangs I've known, "So fhall I thus no farther torments prove, "Nor taunting rivals fay, fhe died for love.' "For fure if aught can aggravate our fate, 'Tis fcorn, or pity from the breaft we hate." She faid, the Gods accord the sad request ; For when were pious pray'rs in vain addreft ?
Now, ftrange to tell! if rural folks fay true,
To harden'd Rock the ftiffening damfel grew;
No more her fhapeless features can be known,
Stone is her body, and her limbs are ftone;
The growing rock invades her beauteous face,
And quickly petrifies each living grace ;
The flone her ftature nor her shape retains,
The nymph is vanish'd, but the rock remains.
Yet wou'd her heart its vital fpirits keep,
And scorn to mingle with the marble heap,
When babbling Fame the fatal tidings bore,
Grief feiz'd the foul of perjur'd Polydore ;
Despair and horror rob'd his foul of rest,
And deep compunction wrung his tortur'd breaft,
Then to the fatal spot in hatte he hied,
And plung'd a deadly poinard in his fide:
He bent his dying eyes upon the ftone,
And, "Take fweet maid" he cried,
groan."
Fainting, the fteel he grafp'd, and as he fell,
The weapon pierc'd the Rock he lov'd fo well;
The guiltless feel affail'd the mortal part,
And ftab'd the vital, vulnerable heart.
The life-blood iffuing from the wounded stone,
Blends with the crimfon current of his own,
And tho' revolving ages fince have past,
The meeting torrents undiminish'd laft;
Still gushes out the fanguine ftream amain,
The ftanding wonder of the ftranger swain.
Now once a year, fo ruftic records tell,
When o'er the heath refounds the midnight bell;
On eve of Midfummer that foe to fleep,
What time young maids their annual vigils keep.
tell-tale fhrub fresh gather'd to declare
The fwains who falfe, from those who conftant are ;
When ghofts in clanking chains the church-yard walk,
And to the wondering ear of fancy talk:
When the fear'd maid fteals trembling thro' the grove,
To kifs the tomb of him who died for love.
When with long watchings, Care, at length oppreft,
Steals broken pauses of uncertain rest ;
Nay Grief fhort fnatches of repose can take,
And nothing but Defpair is quite awake,
Then, at that hour, so ftill, fo full of fear,
When all things horrible to thought appear,
Is perjur'd Polydore observ'd to rove
A ghattly spectre thro the gloomy grove;
Then to the Rock, the Bleeding Rock repair,
Where fadly fighing, it diffolves to air.
Still when the hour of folemn rites return,
The village train in fad proceffion mourn;
Pluck every weed which might the spot difgrace,
And plant the faireft field flow'rs in their place.
Around no noxious plant, or floweret grows,
But the first daffodil, and earliest rofe :
The fnow-drop fpreads its whiteft bofom here,
And golden cowflips grace the vernal year;
Here the pale primrofe takes a fairer hue,
And every violet boafts a brighter blue.
Here builds the woodlark, here the faithful dove
Laments her loft, or wooes her living love.
Secure from harm is every hallowed neft,
The spot is facred where true lovers rest,
* Midfummer-men, confulted as oracles by village maids.
To guard the Rock from each malignant fprite
A troop of guardian spirits watch by night,
Aloft in air each takes his little ftand,
The neighb'ring hill is hence call'd Fairy Land. *
By contraction Failand, a hill well known in Somerfetfhire; not far from this is The Bleeding Rock, from which conftantly iffues a crimson current.
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