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UEEN of the human heart! at whose command

The swelling tides of mighty passion rise;
Melpomene, support my vent'rous hand,
And aid thy suppliant in his bold emprize,

From the gay scenes of pride

Do thou his footsteps guide
To Nature's awful courts, where nurs'd of

yore, Young Shakespeare, Fancy's child, was taught his various lore.

So may his favour'd eye explore the source,

To few reveal'd, whence human sorrows charm:
So may his numbers, with pathetick force,
Bid Terror shake us, or Compassion warm,

As different strains controul

The movements of the soul,
Adjust it's passions, harmonize it's tone,
To feel for others' woe, or nobly bear it's own.

Deep in the covert of a shadowy grove,

'Mid broken rocks where dalhing currents play, Dear to the penfive pleasures, dear to love,

And Damon's Muse, that breathes her melting lay,

2 F


This ardent prayer was made:

When, lo! the secret shade, As conscious of some heavenly presence, shookStrength, firmness, reafon, all my astonish'd foul forfook.

Ah! whither, goddess ! whither am I borne?

To what wild region's necromantick thore ? These panicks whence ? and why my bosom torn With sudden terrors never felt before?

Darkness in wraps me round,

White from the vast profound
Emerging spectres dreadful shapes affume,
And gleaming on my fight, add horror to the gloom.

Ha! what is he, whose fierce, indignant eye,

Denouncing vengeance, kindles into fame?
Whose boisterous fury blow's a storm so high,
As with it's thunder shakes his labouring frame.

What can such rage provoke ?

His words their passage choak:
His eager steps, nor time nor truce allow,
And dreadful dangers wait the menace of his brow.


Protect me, Goddess! whence that fearful shriek

Of consternation? as grim Death had laid
His icy fingers on some guilty cheek,
And all the powers of manhood shrunk dismay’d:

Ah, see! besmear'd with gore,

Revenge ítands threat’ning o'er
A pale delinquent, whose retorted eyes
In vain for pity call the wretched victim dies!

Nor long the space--abandon'd to despair,

With eyes aghaft, or hopeless, fix'd on earth, This slave of passion rends his scatter'd hair,

Beats his fad breaft, and execrates his birth:

While torn within, he feels

The pangs of whips and wheels;
And sees, or fancies, all the fiends below,
Beckoning his frighted soul to realms of endless woe.

Before my wond'ring sense new phantoms dance,

And stamp their horrid shapes upon my brain ! A wretch with jealous brow, and eyes afkance, Feeds all in secret on his bosom pain.

Fond love, fierce hate, assail ;

Alternate they prevail:
While conscious pride and shame with rage confpire,
And urge the latent spark to fames of torturing fire.

The storm proceeds his changeful visage trace:

From rage to madnels ev'ry feature breaks.
A growing phrenzy grins upon his face,
And in his frightful ftare Distraction speaks:

His straw-invested head

Proclaims all reason fied ;
And not a tear bedews those vacant eyes
But songs and shouts fucceed, and laughter-mingled fighs.

Yet, yet again !-a murd'rer's hand appears

Grasping a pointed dagger staind with blood! His look malignant chills with boding fears, That check the current of life's ebbing ilood.

In midnight's darkest clouds

The dreary miscreant Ihrouds
His felon step-as 'twere to darkness given,
To dim the watchful eye of all-pervading Heaven.

And hark! Ah, mercy! whence that hollow found ?

Why with strange horror starts my brifling hair? Earth opens wide ; and, from unhallow'd ground,

A pallid ghoft, flow-rising, iteals on air:

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To where a mangled corse,

Expos'd without remorse,
Lies shroudless, unentomb’d, he points the way...
Points to the prowling wolf exultant o'er his prey.

• Was it for this,' he cries, with kindly shower

Of daily gifts the traitor I caress'd ? • For this array'd him in the robe of power, • And lodg'd my royal secrets in his breaft?

• O kindness ill repay'd !

• To bare the murdering blade

Against my life !-- May Heav'n his gaiit explore, And to my suffering race their splendid rights reitore !

He said, and stalk'd away.-- Ah, Goddess ! cease « Thus with terrifick forms to rack

my brain; · These horrid phantoms shake the throne of Peace, • And Reafon calls her boasted powers in vain,

• 'l hen change thy magick wand,

Thy dreadful troops disband, • And gentler shapes, and softer scenes disclofe, To melt the feeling heart, yet soothe it's tenderest woes!'

The fervent prayer was heard-With hideous sound,

Her ebon gates of darkness open flew ;
A dawning twilight chears the dread profound,
The train of terror vanishes from view,

More mild enchantments rife;

New scenes salute my eyes ; Groves, fountains, bowers, and temples, grace the plain, And turtles coo around, and nightingales complain.

And every myrtie bower and cypress grove,

And every folemn temple teems with life; Here glows the scene with fond but hapless love,

There with the deeper woes of human ftrife.



around the lawn,
By fresh disasters drawn,
The sad spectators seem transfix'd in woe,
And pitying fighs are heard, and heart-felt forrows flow.

Behold that beauteous maid! her languid head,

Bends like a drooping lily charg'd with rain ;
With floods of tears she bathes a lover dead,
In brave affertion of her honour flain.

Her bofom heaves with sighs,

To Heaven she lifts her eyes,
With grief beyond the power of words oppress’d,
Sinks on the lifeless corse, and dies upon his breast.

How strong the bands of Friendship : Yet, alas!

Behind yon mouldering tower with ivy crown'd,
Of two, the foremost in her facred class,
One from his friend receives the fatal wound !

What could such fury move !

What, but ill-fated love !
The same fair object each fond heart enthralls,
And he, the favour'd youth, her hapless victim falls.

Can aught so deeply fway the generous mind

To mutual truth, as female trust in love?
Then what relief shall yon fair mourner find,
Scorn'd by the man who should her plaints remove?

By fair, but false pretence,

She loft her innocence;
Aid that sweet babe, the fruit of treacherous art,
Clasp'd in her arms expires, and breaks the parent's heart.

Ah! who to pomp or grandeur would aspire ?

Kings are not rais'd above Misfortune's frown: Thạt form, fo graceful even in mean attire,

Sway'd once a fceptre, once luftain’d a crown,


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