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Nor love of novelty alone inspires,
Their laws and nice dependencies to scan;
For, mindful of the aids that life requires,
And of the services man owes tu man,
He me itates new arts ou Nature's plan ;
The cold desponding breatt of Sloth to warm,
The flame of Induitry and Genius fan,

An Emulation's noble rage alarm,
and the long hours of Toil and Solitude to charm.

LVII. But She who set on fire his infant heart, And all his dreams, and all his wanderings shared And bless'd the Muse and her celeitial art, Still claim d th’Enthufiaft's fond aud firit regard. From Nature's beauties variously compared And variously coinbined, he learns to frame Those forms of bright perfection, which the Bard,

While boundless hopes and boundless views inflame, Enamour'd confecrates tu never-dying faine.

LVIII. Of late, with cumbersome, though pompous show, Edwin would oft his dowry rhime deface, Through ardour to adorn ; but Nature now To his experienced eye a modeit grace Prefeats, where Ornament the second place Holds to intrinsic worth and juit deliga Subfervient itill. Simplicity apace

Tenpers his rage: he owns her charm divine, And clears th’ainbiguous phrase, and lops th’unwieldy line.

LIX. Fain would I fing (much yet unsung remains) What sweet delirium o'er his bofum ilule, When the great Shepherd of the Mailluan plains * His deep inajestic melody 'gan to rull:


Fain would I fing, what transport florm'd his soul,
How the red current throbb’d his veins along,
When, like Pelides, bold beyond controul,

Gracefully terrible, sublimely strong,
Homerraised high to heaven the loud, th'impetuous fong.

And how his lyre, though rude her first essays,
Now skill'd to footh, to triumph, to complain,
Warbling at will through each harmonious maze,
Was taught to modulate the artful strain,
I fain would fing :-but ah ! I firive in vain.-
Sighs from a breaking heart my voice confound. -
With trembling itep, to join yon weeping train,

I hafte, where gleams funeral glare around (sound. And, mix'd with

thrieks of woe, the knells of death re

Adieu, ye lays, that fancy's flowers adorn,
The soft amusement of the vacant mind!
He sleeps in duft, and all the Muses mourn,
He, whom each Virtue fired, each


refined, Friend, teacher, pattern, darling of mankind ! * He fleeps in duft.-mAh, how shall I pursue My theme' - To heart-consuming grief refign’d Here on this recent grave I fix ny view, And poor my bitter tears.—Ye flowery lays, adieu !

Art thou, my

G** ****, for ever fled !
Arid am I left to unavailing woe !
When fortuve's storms assail this weary liead,
Where cares long since have thed untimely snow,
Ah, now for comfort a hither shall I go!
No more tlıy fuothing voice my anguish chears :

Thy placid eyes with imiles no longer glow,

My hopes to cherish, and allay my fears. (tears. "Tis meet that I should mourn :-flow forth afrein my

* This excellent person died suddenly, on the 10th of February, 1773. The conclusion of the poem was written a few days after,

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HERE is something Ro-

mantic in the Story of the following Poem; but the Author has his Reasons for believing that there is something likewise, Authentic. On the simple Circumstances of the ancient Narrative, from which He first borrowed his Idea, those Reasons are principally founded, and they are supported by others, with which, in a work of this Kind, to trouble his Readers would be fuperfluous.

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