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For many a fhining league the level main
Here spreads itself into a glaffy plain :
There folid billows, of enormous size,
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.
And yet but lately have I feen, e'en here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear.

Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow,
Or winds begun thro' hazy skies to blow,
At ev'ning a keen eaftern breeze arose;
And the defcending rain unfullied froze.
Soon as the filent fhades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brighten'd ev'ry object to my eyes:
For ev'ry fhrub, and every blade of grafs,
And ev'ry pointed thorn, feem'd wrought in glafs,
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While thro' the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-fprung reeds the wat'ry marshes yield,
Seem polish'd lances in a hoftile field.

The ftag, in limpid currents, with furprize,

Sees cryftal branches on his forehead rise.

The spreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing æther shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches fhun,
That wave and glitter in the distant sun.
When, if a fudden guft of wind arife,
The brittle foreft into atoms flies:

The crackling wood beneath the tempeft bends,
And in a spangled fhow'r the profpect ends;

Or,

Or, if a fouthern gale the region warm,
And, by degrees, unbind the wintry charm,.
The traveller a miry country fees,

And journies fad beneath the dropping trees.
Like fome deluded peasant Merlin leads
Thro' fragrant bow'rs, and thro' delicious meads ;;
While here enchanted gardens to him rife,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wondring feet the magic paths purfue;
And, while he thinks the fair illufion true,
The trackless scenes difperfe in fluid air,

And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear:
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,

And, as he goes,

the tranfient vifion mourns.

A LETTER

A LETTER FROM ITALY,

To the Right Honourable

CHARLES LORD HALIFAX.

In the Year MDCCI.

Few poems have done more honour to English genius than this. There is in it a firain of political thinking that was, at that time, new in our poetry. Had the harmony of this been equal to that of Pope's verfification, it would be inconteftibly the finest poem in our language; but there is a dryness in the numbers which greatly leffens the pleasure excited both by the poet's judgement and imagination.

HILE you, my lord, the rural fhades admire, And from Britannia's public pofts retire, Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to please, For their advantage facrifice your cafe ; Me into foreign realms my fate conveys, Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,. Where the foft feason and inviting clime Confpire to trouble your repofe with rhime.

For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes, Gay gilded scenes and fhining prospects rife,

Poetic fields incompass me around,

And still I seem to tread on Claffic ground;
For here the Muse so oft her harp has ftrung,
That not a mountain rears its head unfung,
Renown'd in verfe each fhady thicket grows,
And ev'ry stream in heav'nly numbers flows.
How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods
For rifing springs and celebrated floods!
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his courfe,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his fource;
To fee the Mincio draw his watry store
Through the long windings of a fruitful fhore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide

O'er the warm bed of smoking fulphur glide.
Fir'd with a thousand raptures I furvey
Eridanus through flow'ry meadows ftray,
The king of floods! that rolling o'er the plains
The tow'ring Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly fwoln with a whole winter's fnows,.
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

Sometimes, mifguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for ftreams immortaliz'd in song,
That loft in filence and oblivion lie,

(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry)
Yet run for ever by the Mufe's skill,
And in the smooth defcription murmur ftill.
Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,

And the fam'd river's empty fhores admire,
That, deftitute of ftrength, derives its courfe
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful fource;

Yet

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With fcorn the Danube and the Nile furveys; So high the deathless muse exalts her theme! Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious ftream, . That in Hibernian vales obfcurely ftray'd, And, unobferv'd, in wild meanders play'd; 'Till by your lines and Naffau's fword renown'd; Its rifing billows through the world resound, Where'er the Hero's godlike acts can pierce, Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

Oh cou'd the Muse my ravish'd breast inspire
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire,
Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine,
And Virgil's Italy fhou'd yield to mine!
See how the golden groves around me smile,
That fhun the coast of Britain's stormy isle,
Or, when transplanted and preserv'd with care,
Curfe the cold clime, and starve in northern air.
Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments
To nobler taftes, and more exalted fcents:
E'en the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom,
And trodden weeds fend out a rich perfume.
Bear me, fome God, to Baia's gentle feats,
Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats;
Where western gales eternally refide,
And all the feafons lavish all their pride:

Bloffoms, and fruits, and flow'rs together rife,
And the whole year in gay

confufion lies.

Immortal glories in my mind revive,

And in my foul a thousand paffions strive,

When

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