Sound ev'ning's simple melodies, and calm

To peace each struggling passion of the breast.
Beauteous the view-but ah! can beauty charm
When moral loveliness is fled? Can scenes

Once tenanted by Virtue still retain

Their soothing pow'r, where Virtue dwells no more?
Can Nature, with her fair attractions, lure

255

Those eyes, which ache with looking at the woes 260
Of fallen man? Can all her rural sounds,

Of birds, and rills, and breezes, whisp'ring soft
Thro' the dark forest, lull the ear which rings
With cries of misery and grief? What gives
The heart its purest transports, when we pause
Midst wilds of grandeur and sublimity?
'Tis the reflection that such spots were form'd
To be th' abode of Liberty, the home
Of lofty Independence, when she dares.

265

The threats of stern Oppression. What imprints

270

That calm delight with which the breast o'erflows,

When tranquil prospects, vales, and flow'ry meads,
And groves o'ershading rivers meet our view?

It is the wish that there within these bow'rs

The social virtues of domestic life

275

May rear their cot, and with Contentment dwell.

But can we hope for feelings such as these
Amidst thy shades, Arcadia? Do thy vales
Bring to our thoughts the image of fair Peace,
Thy rocks the form of Freedom? No-the heart
Strives vainly to enjoy those scenes, which erst
Each youthful poet sang; sick'ning amidst
Thy gay luxuriant wilderness, it owns

That Mind to Nature lends its brightest charm.

Far from the haunts of men, amidst these scenes
Sequester'd, which have never heard a sound
Ruder than shepherd's plaintive reed, or bleat
Of flocks returning to their evʼning fold,
A ruin'd temple stands. Devotion rais'd
The hallow'd shrine, and Fancy still surveys
The long procession of her hoary priests,

280

285

290

Her altars wreath'd with chaplets, and the smoke
Of incense rising from those ancient woods.

The eye of Taste that forms from Nature's stores
Ideal scenes of beauteous and sublime,

295

Views here a perfect picture. Broken shafts

Andruzzena, in Arcadial.

London. Published May 2: 2814, by G. & W. Nicol, Pall Mall.

Engraved by Cha Turner.

And mossy stones, half hid by flow'r and shrub,
Break the rough fore-ground where the peasant leans
His lazy length against a knotted oak,

Listening with vacant gaze to the wild tale

Of simple goatherd. In the middle space,
Mould'ring and gray, the Doric columns nod

O'er scatter'd heaps of massy pediment

And sculptur'd frize, round which the myrtle waves
Its wither'd branches; from the temple's base

The rocky knoll precipitous and bare

Sweeps down to yonder vale, whose clust'ring woods

Sleep in the lustre of the setting sun.

Distant, and fading in the clouds of eve,

300

305

The blue hills bend their vast circumference,

310

A stately amphitheatre, and close

Within their arms this peaceful solitude.

O vale of Ladon, which so oft has rung

With shout and song of rustic revelry,

When Mirth, with vine-leaves wreathing his dark hair, 315

Sat at the festive board, or led the nymphs

In mazy dance along thy flow'ry meads,

How are thy echoes chang'd, and ev'ry breeze'