Die, traitor, die, thy guilty flames
Demand th'avenging fteel'
It is my brother, fhe exclaims,
''Tis EDWY-Oh farewell!'

An aged peafant, EDWY's guide,
The good old ARDOLPH fought;
He told him that his bofom's pride.
His EDWY, he had brought.

O how the father's feelings melt!
How faint, and how revive!
Juft fo the Hebrew Patriarch felt,
To find his fon alive.

Let me behold my darling's face,
And bless him ere I die!
Then with a fwift and vigorous pace,
He to the Bower did hie.

O fad reverse!-Sunk on the ground
His flaughter'd fon he views,
And dying BIRTHA close he found
In brother's blood imbru'd.

Cold, fpeechlefs, fenfelefs, ELDRED near

Gaz'd on the deed he had done; Like the blank ftatue of Despair,

Or Madness gray'd in ftone.

The

The father faw-fo Jepthah flood,
So turn'd his woe-fraught eye
When the dear deftin'd child he view'd,
His zeal had doom'd to die.

He look'd the woe he could not speak,
And on the pale corse prest
His wan, difcolour'd, dying cheek,
And filent, funk to rest.

Then BIRTHA faintly rais'd her eye,
Which long had ceas'd to stream,
On ELDRED fix'd with many a figh
Its dim, departing beam.

The cold, cold dews of haftening death
Upon her pale face fland;

And quick and fhort her failing breath,

And tremulous her hand.

The cold, cold, dews of haftening death,

The dim, departing eye.

The quivering hand, the fhort quick breath

He view'd-and did not die.

He faw her fpirit mount in air,

Its kindred fkies to feek!

His heart its anguish could not bear,
And yet it wou'd not break.

The

The mournful Muse forbears to tell

How wretched ELDRED died:
She draws the Grecian Painter's veil,
The vast distress to hide.

Yet Heaven's decrees are juft and wife,

And man is born to bear:

Joy is the portion of the fkies,
Beneath them, all is care.

In the celebrated picture of the facrifice of Iphigenia Timanthes having exhaufted every image of grief in the by-ftanders, threw a veil over the face of the father, whofe forrow ne was utterly unable to exprefs.

PLINY.

Vol. II. 7.

C

THE

"

BLEEDING ROCK,

By HANNAH MORE.

The annual wound allur'd

The Syrian dumfels to lament his fate,
In amorou's ditties all a fummer's day;
While fmooth Adonis from his native rock
Ran purple to the fea, fuppos'd with blood
Of Thammuz yearly wounded.

MILTON,

WHERE beauteous Bemont rears its modeft brow

To view Sabrina's filver waves below,

Liv'd LINDAMIRA; fair as Beauty's Queen,
The fame fweet form, the fame enchanting mien,
With all that fofter elegance of mind

By genius heighten'd, and by talle refin'd.
Yet yearly was the doom'd the child of care,
For love, ill-fated love fubdu'd the fair.
Ah! what avails cach captivating grace,
The form enchanting, or the finifh'd face ?
Or what, each beauty on the heaven-born mind,-
The foul fuperior, or the tafle refin'd ?
Beauty but ferves deftruction to infure,
And fenfe, to feel the pang it cannot cure,

Each

Each neighb'ring youth afpir'd to gain her hand,
And many a fuiter came from many a land.
But all in vain each neighb'ring youth afpir'd,
And diftant fuitors all in vain admir'd.'
Averfe to hear, yet fearful to offend,

The lover fhe refus'd fhe made a friend :
Her meek rejection wore fo mild a face,
More like acceptance feem'd it, than difgrace.
Young POLYDORE, the pride of rural swains,
Was wont to vifit Belmont's blooming plains.
Who has not hear'd that Polydore cou'd throw
Th' unerring dart to wound the flying doe?
How leave the fwifteft at the race behind,
How mount the courfer, and outftrip the wind?
With melting sweetness, or with magic fire,
Breathe the foft flute, or ftrike the louder yre?
From that fam'd lyre no vulgar mufic fprung,
The Graces tun'd it. and Apollo ftrung.

Apollo too was once a fhepherd fwain,

And fed the flock, and grac'd the rustic plain.
He taught what charms to rural life belong,
The focial fweetnefs, and the fylvan fong;
He taught, fair Wisdom in her grove to woo,
Her joys how precious, and her wants how few!
The favage herds in mute attention stood,
And ravish'd Echo fill'd the vocal wood;
The facred Sifters, ftooping from their fphere,
Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear.
C &

Till