These roads that yet the Roman hand affert,
Beyond the weak repair of modern toil;
These fractur'd arches, that the chiding stream
No more delighted hear; thefe rich remains
Of marbles now unknown, where shines imbib'd
Each parent ray; these maffy columns, hew'd
From Afric's fartheft fhore; one granite all,
These obelisks high-towering to the sky.
Myfterious mark'd with dark Egyptian lore;
These endless wonders that this facred way
Illumine ftill, and confecrate to fame;
These fountains, vases, urns, and statues, charg'd
With the fine ftores of art-compleating Greece.
Mine is, besides, thy every later boast :
Thy Buonarotis, thy Palladios mine;
And mine the fair defigns, which Raphael's foul
O'er the live canvafs, emanating, breath'd.
What would you fay, ye conquerors of earth!
Ye Romans! could you raise the laurel'd head;
Could you the country fee, by feas of blood,
And the dread toil of ages, won fo dear;
Your pride, your triumph, and supreme delight!
For whofe defence oft, in the doubtful hour,
You rush'd with rapture down the gulph of fate,
Of death ambitious! till by aweful deeds,
Virtues, and courage, that amaze mankind,
The queen of nations rofe; poffeft of all
Which nature, art, and glory could bestow:
What would you fay, deep in the last abyss
Of flavery, vice, and unambitious want,
Thus to behold her funk? Your crowded plains,
Void of their cities; unadorn'd
Ungrac'd your lakes; your ports to ships unknown;
Your lawless floods, and your abandon'd streams :
These could you know? these could you love again ?
Thy Tibur, Horace, could it now inspire,
Content, poetic ease, and rural joy,
Soon bursting into fong; while through the groves 270
Of headlong Anio, dashing to the vale,
In many a tortur'd stream, you mus’d along?
Yon wild retreat, where fuperftition dreams,
Could, Tully, you your Tufculum believe?
And could you deem yon naked hills, that form, 275
Fam'd in old fong, the fhip-forfaken bay,
Your Formian fhore? Once the delight of earth,
Where art and nature, ever-fmiling, join'd
On the gay land to lavish all their ftores.
How chang'd, how vacant, Virgil, wide around, 280
Would now your Naples feem? Disaster'd lefs
By black Vefuvius thundering o'er the coaft,
His midnight earthquakes, and his mining fires,
Than by defpotic rage: that inward gnaws,
A native foe: a foreign, tears without.
Firft from your flatter'd Cæfars this began:
Till, doom'd to tyrants an eternal prey,
Thin-peopled (preads, at laft, the fyren plain,
That the dire foul of Hannibal disarm'd;
And wrapt in weeds the fhore of Venus lies.
There Baix fees no more the joyous throng;
Her bank all beaming with the pride of Rome :
No generous vines now bask along the hills,
Where sport the breezes of the Tyrrhene main :
With baths and temples mix'd, no villas rise;
Nor, art-sustain❜d amid reluctant waves,
Draw the cool murmurs of the breathing deep:
No fpreading ports their facred arms extend :
No mighty moles the big intrusive storm,
From the calm ftation, roll resounding back.
An almost total defolation fits,
A dreary stillness, faddening o'er the coaft;
Where, when foft funs and tepid winters rofe,
Rejoicing crowds inhal'd the balm of peace; ·
Where city'd hill to hill reflected blaze;
And where, with Ceres, Bacchus wont to hold
A genial ftrife. Her youthful form, robust,
Ev'n nature yields; by fire and earthquake rent:
Whofe ftately cities in the dark abrupt
Swallow'd at once, or vile in rubbish laid,
A neft for ferpents; from the red abyss
New hills, explosive, thrown; the Lucrine lake
A reedy pool; and all to Cuma's point,
The fea recovering his ufurp'd domain,
And pour'd triumphant o'er the bury'd dome.
Hence, Britain, learn; my best-establish'd, last,
And more than Greece, or Rome, my steady reign;
The land where, king and people equal bound
By guardian laws, my fullest bleffings How ;
And where my jealous unfubmitting soul,
The dread of tyrants! burns in every breast :
Learn hence, if such the miserable fate
Of an heroic race, the masters once
Of human-kind; what, when depriv'd of Me,
How grievous must be thine? In spite of climes,
Whofe fun-enliven'd æther wakes the foul
To higher powers; in spite of happy foils,
That, but by labour's flightest aid impell'd,
With treasures teem to thy cold clime unknown;
If there defponding fail the common arts,
And fuftenance of life: could life itself,
Far lefs a thoughtlefs tyrant's hollow pomp,
Subfift with thee? Againft depreffing skies,
Join'd to full-fpread Oppreffion's cloudy brow,
How could thy fpirits hold? where vigour find,
Forc'd fruits to tear from their unnative foil?
Or, ftoring every harvest in thy ports,
To plough the dreadful all-producing wave?
Here paus'd the Goddefs. By the pause affur'd, In trembling accents thus I mov'd my prayer. "Oh, first, and moft benevolent of powers!
"Come from eternal fplendors, here on earth, "Against defpotic pride, and rage, and luft, "To fhield mankind; to raise them to affert
“The native rights and honour of their race : "Teach me thy lowest fubject, but in zeal
"Yielding to none, the Progress of thy Reign,
"And with a ftrain from Thee enrich the Mufe.
"As Thee alone the ferves, her patron, Thou,
"And great inspirer be! then will she joy,
"Through narrow life her lot, and private fhade:
"And when her venal voice the barters vile,
"Or to thy open or thy fecret foes:
66 May ne'er those facred raptures touch her more,
"By flavish hearts unfelt! and may her fong
"Sink in oblivion with the nameless crew!
"Vermin of state! to thy o'erflowing light
"That owe their being, yet betray thy cause." Then, condescending kind, the Heavenly Power Return'd." What here, fuggefted by the fcene, 360 “I slight unfold, record and fing at home, "In that best isle, where (fo we spirits move) "With one quick effort of my will I am.
"There Truth, unlicens'd, walks; and dares accoft "Ev'n kings themselves, the monarchs of the free ! "Fix'd on my rock, there, an indulgent race "O'er Britons wield the fceptre of their choice: "And there, to finish what his fires began, "A Prince behold! for Me who burns fincere, "Ev'n with a fubject's zeal. He my great work "Will parent-like fuftain; and added give "The touch, the Graces and the Mufes owe. "For Britain's glory fwells his panting breast; "And ancient arts he emulous revolves:
"His pride to let the smiling heart abroad;
"Through clouds of pomp, that but conceal the man; "To please his pleafure; bounty his delight; "And all the foul of Titus dwells in him."
Hail, glorious theme! but how, alas! fhall verse, From the crude ftores of mortal language drawn, 380 Haw faint and tedious, fing, what, piercing deep, The Goddess flash'd at once upon my foul.
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