On ev'ry bough the golden fruits are feen;
With odours sweet it fills the fmiling fkies,

The wood nymphs tend it, and th' Idalian queen :
But in the midst of all its blooming pride,

A fudden blaft from Apenninus blows,

Cold with perpetual fnows;

The tender blighted plant fhrinks up its leaves, and dies,

Arife, O Petrarch! from th' Elysian bow'rs,

With never fading myrtles twin'd,

And fragrant with ambrosial flow'rs,
Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;
Arife, and hither bring the filver lyre,
Tun'd by thy fkillful hand,
To the foft notes of elegant defire,

With which o'er many a land

Was fpread the fame of thy difaftrous love;

To me refign the vocal shell,

And teach my forrows to relate
Their melancholy tale fo well,

As may e'en things inanimate,

Rough mountain oaks, and defart rocks, to pity move.

What were, alas! thy woes, compar'd to mine?

To thee thy miftrefs in the blissful band

Of Hymen never gave her hand;

The joys ef wedded love were never thine,
In thy domestic caré

She never bore a share,

Nor

Nor with endearing art

Would heal thy wounded heart

Of every fecret grief that fefter'd there:
Nor did her fond affection on the bed

Of fickness watch thee, and thy languid head
Whole nights on her unwearied arm 'fuftain,
And charm away the fenfe of pain:

Nor did fhe crown your mutual flame

With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name.

O beft of wives! O dearer far to me

Than when thy virgin charms

Were yielded to my arms;

How can my foul endure the lofs of thee?

How in the world, to me a defart

Abandon'd and alone,

grown,

Without my fweet companion can I live?
Without thy lovely fmile,

The dear reward of every virtuous toil.

What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give ?
E'en the delightful fenfe of well-earn'd praife,

Unfhar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raife.

For my diftracted mind

What fuccour can I find?

On whom for confolation fhall I call?

Support me, ev'ry friend;

Your

Your kind affiftance lend,

To bear the weight of this oppreflive woc,

Alas! each friend of mine,

My dear departed love, fo much was thine,
That none has any comfort to bestow.
My books, the best relief

In every other grief,

Are now with your idea fadden'd all :

Each favourite author we together read

My tortur'd memory wounds, and fpeaks of Lucy dead.

We were the happiest pair of human kind :
The rolling year its various courfe perform'd.
And back return'd again!

Another, and another, fmiling came,

And faw our happiness unchang'd remain.
Still in her golden chain

Harmonious Concord did our wifhes bind:
Our ftudies, pleasures, tafte, the fame.
O fatal, fatal ftroke!

That all this pleafing fabric Love had rais'd

Of rare felicity,

On which even wanton Vice with envy gaz'd,

And every scheme of bliss our hearts had form'd,
With foothing hope for many a future day,

In one fad moment broke!

Yet, O my foul! thy rifing murmurs stay;

Nor

Nor dare th' all-wife Difpofer to arraign,

Or against his supreme decree

With impious grief complain.

That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, Was his moft righteous will-and be that will obey'd.

Would thy fond love his grace to her controul;
And, in thefe low abodes of fin and pain,

Her pure exalted foul,

Unjuftly, for thy partial good, detain ?
No-rather ftrive thy grovelling mind to raise
Up to that unclouded blaze,

That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
In which enthron'd fhe now with pity fees,
How frail, how infecure, how flight,
Is every mortal bliss;

Even Love itfelf, if rifing by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state,
Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,
It does not to its fovereign good afcend.
Rife then, my foul, with hope elate,
And feek thofe regions of ferene delight,
Whofe peaceful path, and ever-open gate,

No feet but those of harden'd Guilt fhall mifs;
There Death himself thy Lucy fhall restore;

There yield up all his pow'r ne'er to divide you more.

THE

MESSIAH,

A Sacred Eclogue.

By ALEXANDER POPE, Esq.

E Nymphs of Solyma! begin the fong:

YE

To heavenly themes fublimer flrains belong.
The molly fountains and the fylvan fhades,
The dreams of Pindus and th' Aonian maids,
Delight no more.-O Thou my voice infpire,
Who touch'd Ifaiah's hallow'd lips with fire!
Rapt into future times, the bard begun :
A Virgin fhall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son!
From Jeffe's root behold a branch arise,

Whofe facred flow'r with fragrance fills the skies:
Th' ethereal spirit o'er its leaves fhall move,
.And on its top defcends the myftic Dove.
Ye heav'ns! from high the dewy nectar pour,
And in foft filence fhed the kindly fhow'r!
The fick and weak the healing plant shall aid,
From forms a fhelter, and from heat a fhade.
All crimes fhall ceafe, and antient fraud fhall fail,
Returning Juftice lift aloft her fcale;

Peace o'er the world her olive wand attend,

And white-rob'd Innocence from heav'n defcend.
Swift fly the years, and rife th' expected morn!
Oh fpring to light, aufpicious Babe, be born!

Vol. IV. 14.

B

See