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To act the tenderness he never felt,
In forrow foften, and in anguish melt.
The figh elaborate, the fraudful tear,
The joy diffembled, and the well-feign'd fear,
All these were his; and his the treacherous art
That steals the guileless and unpractis’d heart.

Too, foon he heard of Lindamira's fame, 'Twas each enamour'd Shepherd's fav'rite theme: Return'd the rifing, and the fetting fun,

The Shepherd's fav'rite theme was never done.
They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her air!
And even inferior beauties thought her fair.

Such fweet perfection all his wonder mov'd;
He faw, admir'd, nay fancied that he lov d:
But Polydore no real paffion knew,

Loft to all truth in feigning to be true.
No fenfe of tenderness could warm a heart,
Too proud to feel, too felfifh to impart.

Cold as the fnows of Rhodope defcend,
And with the chilling waves of Hebrüs blend ;
So cold the breaft where Vanity prefides,
And mean felf-love the bofom-feelings guides,

Too well he knew to make his conqueft fure,
Win her foft heart, yet keep his own fecure.
So oft he told the well imagin'd tale,

So oft he fwore how fhould he not prevail?
Too unfufpecting not to be deceiv'd,

The well-imagined tale the nymph believ'd;
She lov'd the youth, fhe thought herself belov'd
Nor blush'd to praise whom every maid approv❜d.

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 easy 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 crimfon 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, Increasing ftrength fuftain'd her firmer mind. "O had my heart been, hard as his," she cried, "An hapless victim thus I had not died; "If there be gods, and gods there furely are, " Infulted virtue doubtlefs is their care.

"Then haften righteous Heaven! my tedious fate,, "Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date:

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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 ftone, "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 breast we hate." She faid, the Gods accord the fad requeft; For when were pious pray'rs in vain addreft?

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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 stone ;
The growing rock invades her beauteous face,
And quickly petrifies each living grace;
The ftone her ftature nor her fhape retains,
The nymph is vanifh'd, but the rock remains.
Yet wou'd her heart its vital fpirits keep,
And fcorn to mingle with the marble heap.

When babbling Fame the fatal tidings bore,
Grief feiz'd the foul of perjur'd Polydore;
Defpair and horror rob'd his foul of rest,
And deep compunction wrung his tortur'd breast,
Then to the fatal fpot 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."

66

my parting

Fainting, the fteel he grafp'd, and as he fell,
The weapon pierc'd the Rock he lov'd fo well;
The guiltlefs fteel affail'd the mortal part,
And ftab'd the vital, vulnerable heart.
The life-blood iffuing from the wounded stone,
Blends with the crimson current of his own,
And tho' revolving ages fince have paft,
The meeting torrents undiminish'd laft;
Still gushes out the fanguine ftream amain,
The ftanding wonder of the ftranger fwain.

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.

The tell-tale fhrub fresh gather'd to declare
The swains 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 reft;

Nay Grief fhort fnatches of repofe can take,
And nothing but Defpair is quite awake,
Then, at that hour, fo ftill, fo full of fear,
When all things horrible to thought appear,
Is perjur'd Polydore observ'd to rove
A ghaitly fpectre 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 fpot difgrace,
And plant the fairest field flow'rs in their place.
Around no noxious plant, or floweret grows,
But the firft daffodil, and earliest rose :

The fnow-drop spreads its whitest bosom here,
And golden cowflips grace the vernal year;
Here the pale primrofe takes a fairer hue,
violet boasts a brighter blue.

And every

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 reft,

* Midfummer-men, confulted as oracles by village maids.

To guard the Rock from each malignant fprite
A troop of guardian fpirits 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 Somei fetfhire; not far from this is The Bleeding Rock, from which conftantly iffues a crimson current.

THE END.

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