To heaven fhe turns in deep despair,
Her infants wonder at her prayer,
And, mingling tears they know not why,
Lift up their little hands, and cry.
O God! their moving forrows fee!
Support them, fweet Humanity!
Life, fill'd with grief's distressful train,
For ever afks the tear humane.
Behold, in yon unconscious grove,
The victims of ill-fated love!
Heard you that agonizing throe?
Sure this is not romantic woe!
The golden day of joy is o'er;
And now they part to meet no more.
Affift them, hearts from anguish free!
Affift them, fweet Humanity!
Parent of virtue, if thine ear
Attend not now to forrow's cry;
If now the pity-streaming tear
Should haply on thy cheek be dry;
Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity!
As Phoebus darted forth his milder ray,
And length'ning shades confefs'd the short'ning day;
To Tiber's banks repair'd an am'rous swain,
The love and envy of the neighb'ring plain,
To cool his heat, he fought the breezy grove;
To cool his heat, but more the heat of love:
To footh his cares on the foft lute he play'd;
But the foft lute refresh'd the lovely maid;
Confpiring elms their umbrage shed around,
Wav'd with applause, and liften'd to the found.
Sweet Philomel, the chorister of love,
The musical enchantress of the grove,
With wonder heard the shepherd as he play'd,
And ftole, attentive, to the tuneful shade;
Perch'd o'er his head the fylvan Syren fate,
With envy burning, and with pride elate;
Ambitiously she lent a list'ning ear,
Charm'd with the very founds the dy'd to hear:
Each note, each flowing accent of the fong,
She footh'd, and sweeten'd with her softer tongue;
Gently refin'd each imitated strain,
And paid him with his harmony again.
The shepherd wonder'd at the just replies,
At first mistaken for the vocal breeze;
But when he found his little rival near
Imbibing mufic both at eye and ear,
With a fublimer touch he swept the lute,
A fummons to the mufical difpute;
The fummons fhe receiv'd, refolv'd to try,
And daring, warbled out a bold reply.
Now sweetest thoughts the gentle swain infpire,
And with a dying softness tune the lyre,
Echo the vernal music of the woods,
Warble the murmurs of the falling floods;
Thus fweet he fings, but fweetly fings in vain,
For Philomela breathes a fofter strain ;
With easier art fhe modulates each note,
More nat❜ral mufic melting in her throat:
Much he admir'd the magic of her tongue,
But more to find his lute and art outdone.
And now to loftier airs he tunes the strings
And now to loftier airs his echo fings;
Though loud as thunder, though as fwift as thought,
She reach'd the swelling, caught the flying note;
In trembling treble, now in folemn base,
She show'd how nature could his art furpass.
Amaz'd, at length with rage the shepherd burn'd,
His admiration into anger turn'd;
Inflam'd, with emulating pride he stood,
And thus defy'd the charmer of the wood:
And wilt thou ftill my mufic immitate?
Then fee thy folly, and thy tafk is great:
For, know, more pow'rful lays remain unfung,
Lays far fuperior to thy mimic tongue.
If not, this lute, this vanquish'd lute I swear
Shall never more delight the ravish'd ear;
But broke in fcatter'd fragments, ftrew the plain,
And mourn the glories which it could not gain.
He said, and as he faid, his foul on fire,
With a difdainful air he struck the lyre;
Quick to the touch the tides of music flow,
Swell into strength, or melt away in woe:
Now raise the fhrilling trumpet's clanging jar,
And imitated thunders rouze the war;
Now foft'ning founds, and fadly pleasing strains,
Breathe out the lover's joys, and lover's pains.
He fung; and ceas'd her rival notes to hear,
As his dy'd lift'ning in the ambient air.
But now, too late, her noble folly found,
Sad Philomela ftood fubdu'd by found;
Though vanquish'd, yet with gen'rous ardour fill'd,
Ignobly still she fcorn'd to quit the field:
But flowly faint her penfive accents flow,
Weaken'd with grief, and overcharg'd with woe.
Again the tunes her voice, again the fings,
Strains ev'ry nerve, and quivers on her wings;
In vain her finking spirits fade away,
And in a tuneful agony decay;
Dying fhe fell, and as the strains expire,
Breath'd out her foul in anguish on the lyre;
Diffolv'd in tranfport, the refign'd her breath
And gain'd a living conqueft by her death..
In the barn the tenant cock,
Close to partlet perch'd on high, Brifkly crows (the fhepherd's clock!) Jocund that the morning's nigh.
Swiftly from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire:
And the peeping fun-beam now
Paints with gold the village fpire.
Philomel forfakes the thorn,
Plaintive where the prates at night;
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