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Adorn'd the woman. My imperfect strain
Can ill describe the transport Junio felt
At this discovery: he declar'd his love ;
She own'd his merit, nor refus'd his hand.
And shall not Hymen light his brightest torch
For this delighted pair ? Ah, Junio knew
His fire detested his Theana's house !
Thus duty, reverence, gratitude, conspir’d
To check their happy union. He refolv'd
(And many a figh that resolution cost)
To pass the time, till death his fire remov'd,
In visiting old Europe's letter'd climes :
While she (and many a tear that parting drew)
Embark'd, reluctant, for her native isle.
Tho' learned, curious, and tho' nobly bent
With each rare talent to adorn his mind,
His native land to serve ; no joys he found.
Yet sprightly Gaul ; yet Belgium, Saturn's reign ;
Yet Greece, of old the seat of every Muse,
Of freedom, courage ; Yet Aufonia's clime,
His steps explor'd, where painting, mufic's strains,
Where arts, where laws, (philosophy's best child)
With rival beauties his attention claim'd.
To his juft-judging, his instructed eye,
The all-perfect Medicean Venus seem'd
A perfect femblance of his Indian fair :
But when she spoke of love, her voice surpass d
The harmonious warblings of Italian song.
Twice one long year elaps’d, when letters came,
Which briefly told him of his father's death,
Amicted, filial, yet to Heav'n resign'd,
Soon he reach'd Albion, and as soon embark's,
Eager to clasp the object of his love.
Blow, prosperous breezes ; swiftly fail, thou Po:
Swift fail'd the Po, and happy breezes blew.
In Biscay's stormy seas an armed ship,
Of force superior, from loud Charente's wave
Clapt them on board. The frighted Aying crew
Their colours strike ; when dauntless Junio, fir'd
With noble indignation, kill'd the chief,
Who on the bloody deck dealt slaughter round.
The Gauls retreat ; the Britons loud huzza ;
And touch'd with shame, with emulation stung,
So plied their cannon, plied the missile fires,
That soon in air the hapless Thunderer blew.
Blow, prosperous breezes ; swiftly fail, thou Po:
May no more dangerous fights retard thy way!
Soon Porto Santo's rocky heights they 'spy,
Like clouds dim rising in the distant sky.
Glad Eurus whistles, laugh the sportive crew;
Each fail is set to catch the favouring gale,
While on the yard-arm the harpooner fits,
Strikes the boneta, or the shark insnares :
The little nautilus, with purple pride
Expands his fails, and dances o'er the waves :
Small winged fishes on the shrouds alight ;
And beauteous dolphins gently play'd around.
Tho' faster than the Tropic-bird they few,
Oft Junio cried, Ah! when shall we see land !
Soon land they made : and now in thought he clasp'd
His Indian bride, and deem'd his toils o'erpaid.
She, no less anxious, every evening walk'd
On the cool margin of the purple main,
Inteut her Junio's veffel to descry.
One eve (faint calms for many a day had rag'd)
The winged Dæmons of the tempeft rose;
Thunder, and rain, and lightning's awful power
She fled : could innocence, could beauty claim
Exemption from the grave ; the ethereal bolt,
That stretch'd her speechless, o'er her lovely head
'Had innocently roll’d.
Meanwhile, impatient Junio leap'd ashore,
Regardless of the Dæmons of the storm.
Ah, youth ! what woes, too great for man to bear,
Are ready to burst on thee? Urge not-so
Thy flying courfer. Soon Theana's porch
Receiv'd him ; at his fight, the ancient saves
Affrighted shriek, and to the chamber point :-
Confounded, yet unknowing what they meant,
He enter'd hafty-
Ah! what a fight for one who lov’d so well !
All pale and cold, in every feature death,
Theana lay ; and yet a glimpse of joy
Play'd on her face, while with faint faltering voice,
She thus address'd the youth, whom yet she knew :
“ Welcome, my Junio, to thy native shore !
· Thy fight repays this summons of my fate :
“ Live, and live happy ; sometimes think of me:
“ By night, by day, you still engag'd my care ;
“ And, next to God, you now my thoughts employ :
· Accept of this My little all I give;
* Would it were larger". Nature could no more ;
She look'd, embraced him, with a groan expir’d,
But say, what ftrains, what language can express-
The thousand pangs, which tore the lover's breast ?
Upon her breathless corse himself he threw,
And to her clay-cold lips, with trembling hafte,
* Ten thousand kisses gave. Hefrove to speak ;
Nor words he found : he claspt her in his arms ;
He sigh’d, he fwoon'd, look'd up, and died away.
One grave contains this hapless, faithful pair ;
And still the Cane-ifles tell their matchless love !
Y name is Norval: on the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flock; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home.
For I had heard of battles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord ;
And Heaven foon granted what my fire denied.
This moon, which rose last night round as my shield
Had not yet fill'd her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills,
Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds filed
For fafety, and for succour. I alone,
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd
The road he took, then hafted to
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing "The pursuit I led,
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe,
We fought and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their chief,
Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd
The shepherd's Nothful life ; and having heard
That our good king had summon'd his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron fide,
my father's house, and took with me
A chofen servant to conduct my steps
Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I pass’d these towers,
And, Heaven-directed, came this day to do
The happy deed that gilds my
OST potent, grave, and reverend Signiors,
My very noble and approv'd good masters,
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true ; true, I have married her;
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent ; no more. Rude am I in speech,
And little bless’d with the set phrase of peace ;
For since these arms of mine had seven ycars pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us’d
Their deareft action in the tented field ;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle ;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause,
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your patience,