556 
Ours is the fault, that ’mid the wreck of 
time 
Rome’s glorious fabric mould’ring thus 
decays, j 
Ours—that no fon of thefedegen’rate days 
Knows in his great forefathers’ fteps to 
climb. 
The lofty arch and trophied column claim 
The honour due toancient valorous deeds, 
But none of living virtue now fucceeds 
On arch or column to infcribe his name. 
Latium! the gen’rous foul thou once didft 
breathe, 
Expires in lnxury’s deceitful arms; 
Seeft ‘thou not, wretched! by her baneful 
charms 
Thy laurel cwindled to a myrtle wreath? 
Vorgive my words ! ’twas once thy youth’s 
delight 
In hardy fports to brace the active frame, 
"To bend the bow, the warlike {teed to 
tame, 
To rear the fhield, and poife the lance 
in fight. 
Now, by the cryftal mirror’s friendly aid, 
Thy copious locks in artful ringlets flow ; 
And, ftrown with gold, thy coltly gar- 
ments fhow 
‘Thy ancient wealth, in idle pomp dif- 
played. . 
To thee, her richeft fweets Affyria fends, 
Snatch’d from Sabea’s odour-breathing 
bloom ; 
To grace thy haughty neck, Batavia’s 
loom Ws 
Its fineft webs of filmy texture lends. 
In golden cups; thy feftal board around, 
"The foreign juice of rocky Scios fhines ; 
And frozen waters tame Falernian wines, 
When burning fummer cleaves the thirty 
ground. 
To fwell thy fumptuous banquet’s walte- 
ful pride 
Africand Phafis fend their feather’d ftore, 
And finny tribes, from many adiftant shore, 
In maffive gold, ’mid liquid odours glide. 
Such waft thou not when Rome’s young 
empire faw 
‘The ploughman Conful, nor difdained 
to own 
"The poor Dictator on his humble throne, 
His ruftic fafces, and his fimple law! 
Yet, thofe rude hands, behind the lab’ring 
wain 
‘That urged the weary oxen’s tardy tread, 
Thy glory raifed, thy conquering enfign 
{pread 
From Auttral climes to Boreas’ wintry 
reign. 
Original Poctry. 
[Jan. i, 
Now, fcarce the mem’ry of thy lofty ftate 
_ Survives ; and, trampling on extinguifhed , 
worth, 
And ancient valour crumbling low im 
earth, 
Barbarian rigour triumphs o’er thy fate. 
Friend ! if Italia rouze not from her dream, 
(Falfe be my words!) eer long the Per- 
fian force, 
Or Thracian armies, in victorious courfe, 
Shall pitch their hoftile tents by Tiber’s 
L. 
ftream ! 

For the Monthly Magazine. 
From the BLACKBIXD at CABIN-HILL. 
To Mi ***** M**** 
HE hermit bird, with yellow bill, 
And plumes of darkeft hue, 
In his low’d haunt of Cabin-hill, 
Prepares the note for you. 
Sweet note! that, link’d to rural charms, 
The heart-to Nature draws ; 
Sufpended the vain world’s alarms, 
In its melodious paufe! 
“ ¥ court the filence of retreat, 
Conceal’d in thickeft wood ; 
More ftrongly love, and fing more fweet, 
From fenfe of folitude. 
« Acrofs the garden-walk I fpring, 
So focial, yet fo fhy; 
And the quick fhudder of the wing, 
Now tells my inward joy. 
“ My welcome to the morning light 
Shall foon be heard by thee; 
And at the fail of dewy night 
My hymn to Liberty. 
«“ ©! for one burft of noble rage, 
Which tyrants might appal; 
That birdsand men could break their cage 
To live at Nature’s call! 
“ The prifon’d man, the prifon’d note, 
In fad effe& combin’d, 
All tunelefs grows the vocal throat, 
And mufic of the mind, 
“ But the wild notes I carelefs fling, 
Attach the virtuous ear 3 
They harbinger the warmth of f{pring, 
They wake the torpid year. 
« On them the penfive pleafures hang, 
When other fongfters clofe ; 
And e’en on mem’rys fharpeft pang 
A foft oblivion throws. 
« Departed worth fhall mix and blend 
“With ev’ry tender tone: 
And {cenes that call the buried friend, 
Shall feem again his own. 
« Thy 
