XII.

Thus, Ruffel, in the fhades below,

The godlike Theban tun'd his lyre;

While the fad ghosts th' inchanting founds admire,
And unknown pleasures fill the realms of woe.
Alas! in vain I would thy judgment cheat,
Thou feeft thro' all the thin deceit;

Thou feeft my trifling rage, and counterfeited fire.
O! were my foul, like thine, poffeft,
Of all the nobleft treasures of the East;

Could there in each well polish'd line
Appear a genius as refin'd as thine;

Were all my verse like thy just language strong,
And foft as when thy moving tongue
Charms ev'ry paffion of th' attentive throng;
My daring mufe fhould never fall

Beneath its vaft original;

Spurn the dull earth, and foar above the fkies:

The diff'rence ev'n by thee fhould fcarce be known, And the great bard himfelf my equal numbers own.

ETERNAL God, whofe awful pow'r
The trembling feraphs own;

When proftrate low before thy throne,

With cover'd faces they adore,

And fing thro' all the vaults above,

The wonders of thy grace, and glories of thy love t
How vaft the pleafures! how intenfe!

That from thy throne in living torrents roll;
Pindar.

'How well they ravish ev'ry fenfe,

And fill up all the foul!

Where happy minds repos'd in thy embrace,
Unveil'd before the fplendour of thy face,

And in ineffable delight,

Feast on thy love, and on thy fight

Thro' all eternity employ

Their pow'rs fublime, and equal to their joy. 11.

Fain would the humble mufe afpire,
And to celeftial tranfports tune her lyre,
But, ah in vain her strength she tries,
Feeble and faint, fhe dreads the skies,

And finks the more, the more fhe ftrives to rife.
My foul too finks, as well as the,
Forgets its own immortal pedigree,
Forgets the fkies, its native feat,
And grov'ling low in duft and clay,
Heedlefs of aught divinely great,
It wastes the precious hours away,
In joys that fly as fwift as they.
The finful flesh, a heavy load,

Drags down the bright, immortal part,
Weakens its pow'rs, and fixes all the heart
Far from its heav'n, and from its God!
Terreftrial objects ev'ry rapture move,
For them alone it learns to love,

For them with cafe neglects the diftant joys above.

Delia, whom propitious Heav'n

The fofteft cure for my worft ills has giv'n;

To end in wand'ring thro' life's tedious road,
To banish horror and defpair,

Tear from my heart each wildest care,

Send a fresh warmth, as ev'ry charm decays,
And wild defires, you want the pow'r to raise..
Ah, nymph! the horror of this fate prevent;
Appease the angry God, and yet in time repent.
Let tastelefs age th' ecstatic bliss despise,
Grow coldly grave, and ftoically wife;
Do you, my fair, while blooming youth invites
To warmer sentiments, and gay delights,
Your fcorn and dull indiff'rence difpoffeft,
Receive the gentle tyrant to your breast :
Reward a conftant flame, and yield to prove
The mighty transports of a mutual love :
No other folid bleffings mortals know,
Nor Heav'n can on its fav'rites more bestow,
To give a taste of its own joys below.

He ceas'd. The neigh'bring echoes caught the found,
The little birds fung tender notes around;
The listening waves in gentle murmurs move,
And ev'ry balmy Zephyr whisper'd love :
Yet her cold heart in filence heard his pain;
When the heart's filent, all things speak in vain.

THE CAPRICE.

From the fame.

NEAR a pure ftream, beneath a cooling fhade,
Charming retreat! the penfive Iris ftray'd;
Iris, a name to distant nations known,

By her fam'd verfes' beauties, and her own :

Heedlefs fhe rov'd; for, not the murm'ring found

Of the smooth waves, nor flow'rs that deck the ground,
Nor the birds tender fongs could charm the fair,
Or cafe her gloomy thoughts, and melancholy care,
At laft fhe cries, Fond love, I own no more
Thy awful tyranny, and boasted pow'r;

No more thro' thee tumultuous fears arife,
Pain my torn breast, and fwell my ftreaming eyes;
A native coldness reigns in ev'ry part,

And all is calm and quiet in my heart:
But ah! how poorly 1 that calmness tafte,
Forc'd to regret ev'n all my fuff 'rings paft!
Alas! the unwary foul but little knows,
That wishes for the bleffings of repose;
In the fad ftate of idleness and cafe,

When nothing bufies, nothing too can please.
The treach'rous tyrant, Love, lefs faintly charms,
Sweet are his ills, and pleafing all his harms:
The mind each moment to delight improves ;
For all is pleasure to a heart that loves.
In what a tedious round of griefs he lives,
Who, wretched, his own tenderness furvives?
Can one who ever felt an am'rous pain,
Unloving life's vexatious load fuftain ?
Lofe ev'ry ling'ring hour, and waste away,
In dull, unactive indolence the day?

Ah no! return, soft God, resume thy reign, .
Bring all thy fires to kindle mine again.
Alas! thou wilt not come, and all my calls are vain.
Cruel! thou cam'ft an uninvited guet,

And mad'st, unfought, a paffage to my breast:
Now thou canst all my pray'rs and vows defpife,
And fcorn to gain a weak inglorious prize,

Lafk not for the transports thofe poffefs

Whom thou, with fmiling fates, and mutual loves dost bless.
The barb'rous, charming youth that rul'd my heart,

Has taught me all thy rigour, and thy fmart;
Heedlefs of mine, in other flames he burns,
And hate, or worfe indifference, returns.
The joy of being lov'd I ne'er can prove;
I afk no other now, but that of love.

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Have not my fears and my alarms been vain ?
How am I fure that I have broke my chain?
Don't I, while I defire, already feel the pain?
What fhall I do? what method take to find
The true condition of my floating mind?
See, while I fpeak, the dear ungrateful come!

His prefence clears my doubts, and fixes all my doom.
I view the lovely fwain; his fight inspires
Soft melting thoughts, and raging fierce defires,
And all my foul conceives the well-known fires.
Welcome, ye boundless griefs, and racking pains!
Welcome, ye ne'er to be forgotten chains!
Amidft confufion, horror, and despair,

Studious I'll feed the dear diftra&ting care,

(prayer.

And thank thee, gracious Love, that well hast heard

PINDAR'S ODE TO PROSERPINE. IF

Tranflated from the French of M. DE LA MOTTE.

INSCRIBED TO THE REV. MR JOHN RUSSEL.

I.

BRIDE of the gloomy king, whose awful sway
The dreadful realms of night obey,

By unrelenting fate at last

Upon thine empire I am caft,

The dreary banks of Styx I've past :

"Tis time my faithful shade should pay
The tributary verfe I owe,

And what above I promis'd, give below.

my

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|| As an incorrect copy of this Ode has been printed under the name of another gentleman, who pretends not only to have corrected several errors, but to have really written many lines in it; it is abfolutely neceffary, in justice to Mr Rowe, to affure the public that they are indebted to that editor for no more than trvo lines, and the alteration of a few words in this poem; and that (excepting the removal of one or two expletives) it is now publisked exactly as the Author wrote it.