quainted, and from which they cannot escape uncensured. But it is time that I put an end to my remarks, lest I should be numbered among those false friends who injure the cause which they seem to defend, by dilating what had been more seasonably compressed, and by endeavouring to give dignity to trifles.

PROLOGUE.

THOU little wreath, by Fancy twin'd In Summer's suns and Winter's wind, That thro' an age of deepest gloom Hast kept thy fragrance and thy bloom, 'Tho' now whole centuries have roll'd, And nations, since thy birth, grown old, Tho' time have wither'd many a leaf, And silent Envy play'd the thief,

And clowns have breath'd in evil hour

A poison into thy sweet flow'r,-
Yet dost thou live-nor tyrant's rage
Hath nipt thee quite, nor wars, nor age.
Yet not, as once, the gentle earth
Thou dost adorn that gave thee birth,
When, all unforc'd by pains and toil,
Wild shooting in thy native soil,

The sweetest buds that deck'd the land
Were pluck'd by Meleager's hand,

Who curl'd Anacreon's blushing vine

Around Erinne's eglantine,

And Myro's lilies cull'd, to shade

The roses of the Lesbian Maid,

And pluck'd the myrtle from thy grove,
Callimachus, the sprig of love.

Be mine to wreathe, these sweets among (Menander, prince of comic song),

Some honours spar'd by age and clime,
That live to grace an after-time,

Pluck'd from thy many garlands bright,

So charming once and new to sight.

Our unavailing sorrows mourn

Thy roses pale, thy lilies torn,

Thy garden rifled of its bloom,
Thy violets robb'd of their perfume;
Thy gaudy tulips now have lost
Their smiles by many a chilling frost;

Thy Spring's rich wardrobe now is scant,

And now some sad and wint'ry plant,
Some wither'd shrub, of pow'r malign

(Of all that grac'd thy garden fine),
Remains of thee, or sickly yew

(Where buds of heavenly fragrance grew)