IN THE SAME TRAGEDY,

To diffuade Medea from her purpose of putting her Children to death, and flying for protection to Athens.

HAGGARD queen! to Athens doft thou guide Thy glowing chariot, fteep'd in kindred gore; Or feek to hide thy damned parricide

Where Peace and Mercy dwell for ever more?

The land where Truth, pure, precious, and fublime,

Woos the deep filence of sequester'd bowers,

And warriors, matchlefs fince the firft of Time,

Rear their bright banners o'er unconquer'd towers!

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Where joyous Youth, to Mufie's mellow ftrain,

Twines in the dance with Nymphs for ever fair,

While Spring eternal, on the lilied plain,

Waves amber radiance through the fields of air!

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The tuneful Nine (fo facred legends tell)

First wak'd their heavenly lyre these fcenes among ;

Still in your greenwood bowers they love to dwell; 15 Still in your vales they fwell the choral fong!

For there the tuneful, chafte, Pierian fair,

The guardian nymphs of green Parnaffus, now Sprung from Harmonia, while her graceful hair

Wav'd in bright auburn o'er her polish'd brow!

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ANTISTROPHE I.

Where filent vales, and glades of green array,

The murm'ring wreaths of cool Cephifus lave, There, as the muse hath fung, at noon of day, The Queen of Beauty bow'd to taste the wave!

And bleft the ftream, and breath'd across the land,

The foft sweet gale that fans yon fummer bowers; And there the fifter Loves, a fmiling band,

Crown'd with the fragrant wreaths of rofy flowers!

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"And go, (fhe cries) in yonder valleys rove,

With Beauty's torch the folemn fcenes illume;

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Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love,

Breathe on each cheek young Paffion's tender bloom!

Entwine, with myrtle chains, your foft controul,

To fway the hearts of Freedom's darling kind! With glowing charms enrapture Wifdom's foul, And mould to grace ethereal Virtue's mind."

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STROPHE II.

The land where Heaven's own hallow'd waters play,

Where Friendship binds the generous and the good,

Say, fhall it hail thee from thy frantic

way,

Unholy woman! with thy hands embrued

In thine own children's gore?-oh! ere they bleed,

Let Nature's voice thy ruthless heart appal!

Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed—

The mother ftrikes-the guiltless babes fhall fall!

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Think what remorfe thy maddening thoughts fhall fting, When dying pangs their gentle bofoms tear;

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Where fhalt thou fink, when ling'ring echoes ring

The screams of horror in thy tortur'd ear?

No! let thy bofom melt to Pity's cry,—

In duft we kneel-by facred Heaven implore

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O! ftop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die,

Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore!

ANTISTROPHE II.

Say, how fhalt thou that barb'rous foul affume?

Undamp'd by horror at the daring plan,

Haft thou a heart to work thy children's doom?

Or hands to finish what thy wrath began?

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