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For many a shining league the level main
Here spreads itself into a glaffy plain :
There solid billows, of enormous size,
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.
And yet but lately have I feen, e'en here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear.
Ere

yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow,
Or winds begun thro' hazy skies to blow,
At ev’ning a keen eastern breeze arose;
And the descending rain unsullied froze.
Soon as the filent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclos’d at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brighten'd ev'ry object to my eyes :
For ev'ry shrub, and every blade of grass,
And ev'ry pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass,
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While thro' the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-sprung reeds the wat'ry marshes yield,
Seem polish'd lances in a hostile field.
The stag, in limpid currents, with surprize,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise.
The spreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing æther shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches fhun,
That wave and glitter in the distant sun.
When, if a sudden gust of wind arise,
The brittle forest into atoms flies:
The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled fhow'r the prospect ends;

Or,

Or, if a fouthern gale the region warm,
And, by degrees, unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country fees,
And journies fad beneath the dropping trees.

Like fome deluded peasant Merlin leads
Thro' fragrant bow'rs, and thro' delicious meads;;
While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wondring feet the magic paths pursue;
And, while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear:-
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns..

A LETTER

A LETTER FROM ITALY,

To the Right Honourable

CHARLES LORD HALIFAX.

In the Year MDCCI.

Few poems

have done more honour to English genius than this. There is in it a firain of po-litical thinking that was, at that time, new in: our poetry. Had the harmony of this been equal. to that of Pope's versification, it would be inconteftibly the finest poem in our language; but there is a dryness in the numbers which greatly lessens. the pleasure excited both by the poet's: judgement and imagination.

WHILE you, my lord, the rural shades admire,

,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to please,
For their advantage facrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the foft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhime.
For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd

eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,

Poetic fields incompass me around,
And still I seem to tread on Clasic ground;
For here the Muse so oft her harp has ftrung,
That not a mountain rears its head unsung,
Renown'd in verse each fhady thicket grows,
And ev'ry stream in heav'nly numbers flows.
How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods
For rising springs and celebrated foods !
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his fource ;
To see the Mincio draw his watry store
Through the long windings of a fruitful shore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide
O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide.

Fir'd with a thousand raptures I survey
Eridanus through flow'ry meadows ftray,
The king of foods! that rolling o'er the plains
The tow'ring Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortaliz'd in song,
That lost in silencc and oblivion lie,
(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry)
Yet run for ever by the Muse's kill,
And in the smooth description murmur fill.

Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the fam'd river's empty fhores admire,
'That, deftitute of Atrength, derives its course
From thristy urns and an unfruitful source ;

Yet

1

Yet sung so often in poetic lays,
With fcorn the Danube and the Nile surveys;
So high the deathless muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream,
That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd,
And, unobserv'd, in wild meanders play'd;
'Till by your lines and Nassau's sword renowu'd ;
Its rising billows through the world resound,
Where'er the Hero's godlike acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

Oh cou'd the Muse my ravishd breast inspire
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire,
Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should thine,
And Virgil's Italy fou'd yield to mine!
See how the golden groves around me smile,
That fhun the coast of Britain's stormy isle,
Or, when transplanted and preservd with care,
Curse the cold clime, and starye in northern air.
Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments
To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents :
E'en the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom,
And trodden weeds fend out a rich perfume.
Bear me, fome God, to Baia's gentle seats,
Or cover me in Umbria's

green retreats ; Where western gales eternally refide, And all the seasons lavish all their pride: Blossoms, and fruits, and flow'rs together rise, · And the whole

confusion lies. Immortal glories in my mind revive, And in my foul a thousand passions strive,

year

When

in gay

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