When Rome's exalted beauties, I defcry,
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.

An amphitheatre's amazing height
Here fills my eye with terror and delight,
That on its public fhews Unpeopled Rome,
And held Uncrowded nations in its womb:
Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies :
And here the proud triumphal arches rise,
Where the old Romans deathlefs acts display'd,
Their bafe degenerate progeny upbraid:

Whole rivers here forfake the fields below,

And, wond'ring at their height, through airy channele flow.

Still to new fcenes my wand'ring Mufe retires;
And the dumb fhow of breathing rocks admires;
Where the fmooth chifel all its force has shown,
And foften'd into flesh the rugged ftone.
In folemn filence, a majestic band,

Heroes, and Gods, and Roman Confuls, ftand,
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And emperors, in Parian marble frown;

While the bright dames, to whom they humbly fu'd,
Still show the charms that their proud hearts fubdu'd.
Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse,

And fhow th' immortal labours in my verse,
Where, from the mingled ftrength of fhade and light,
A new creation rifes to my fight,

Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow,

So warm with life his blended colours glow,
From theme to theme with fecret pleasure toft,
Amidst the soft variety I'm loft:

Here pleafing airs my ravish'd foul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of found:
Here domes and temples rise in distant views,
And opening palaces invite my Mufe.

How has kind Heav'n adorn'd the happy land,
And scatter'd bleffings with a wasteful hand!
But what avail her unexhaufted ftores,

Her blooming mountains, and her funny fhores, With all the gifts that Heav'n and earth impart, The fmiles of nature, and the charms of art, While proud Oppreffion in her valleys reigns, And Tyranny ufurps her happy plains?

'The

poor

inhabitant beholds in vain The redd'ning Orange and the swelling grain : Joyless he fees the growing oils and wines, And in the Myrtle's fragrant shade repines: Starves, in the midft of nature's bounty curft, And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst. Oh Liberty, thou goddess heav'nly bright, Profuse of blifs, and pregnant with delight! Eternal pleafures in thy prefence reign, And smiling Plenty leads thy wanton train; Eas'd of her load Subjection grows more light, And Poverty looks chearful in thy fight; Thou mak'ft the gloomy face of Nature gay, Giv'ft beauty to the Sun, and pleasure to the Day. Thee, goddess, thee Britannia's ifle adores ; How has the oft exhaufted all her ftores, How oft, in fields of death, thy prefence fought,. Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!

On

On foreign mountains may the Sun refine
The grape's foft juice, and mellow it to wine,
With Citron groves adorn a distant soil,
And the fat Olive fwell with floods of oil:
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,
Nor at the coarseness of our Heav'n repine,
Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads fhine:

'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,

And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains fmile.

Others with tow'ring piles may please the fight, And in their proud afpiring domes delight; A nicer touch to the stretch'd canvass give, Or teach their animated rocks to live: 'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate, And hold in balance each contending ftate; To threaten bold prefumptuous kings with war, And anfwer her afflicted neighbour's pray'r. The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms, Blefs the wife conduct of her pious arms : Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors ceafe, And all the northern world lies hush'd in peace.

Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with fecret dread Her thunder aim'd at his aspiring head, And fain her godlike fons wou'd disunite By foreign gold, or by domestic spite : But strives in vain to conquer or divide, Whom Naffau's arms defend and counfels guide. Fir'd with the name, which I so oft have found The distant climes and diff'rent tongues refound,

I bridle in my struggling Mufe with pain,
That longs to launch into a bolder strain.

But I've already troubled you too long, Nor dare attempt a more advent'rous fong. My humble verse demands a softer theme, A painted meadow, or a purling stream; Unfit for Heroes; whom immortal lays, And lines like Virgil's, or like your's, fhou'd praife.

ALEXANDER's