From Cupid'S Bow Received The Shaft Of Death.-- There Was Cabestaing, Whose Unequall'D Lays From All His Rivals Won Superior Praise.-- Hugo Was There, With Almeric Renown'D;-- Bernard And Anselm By The Muses Crown'D.-- Those And A Thousand Others O'Er The Field Advanced; Nor Javelin Did They Want, Or Shield; The Muses Form'D Their Guard, And March'D Before. Spreading Their Long Renown From Shore To Shore.-- The Latian Band, With Sympathising Woe, At Last I Spied Amid The Moving Show: Bologna'S Poet First, Whose Honour'D Grave His Relics Hold Beside Messina'S Wave. O Fickle Joys, That Fleet Upon The Wind, And Leave The Lassitude Of Life Behind! The Youth, That Every Thought And Movement Sway'D Of This Sad Heart, Is Now An Empty Shade! What World Contains Thee Now, My Tuneful Guide, Whom Nought Of Old Could Sever From My Side? What Is This Life?--What None But Fools Esteem; A Fleeting Shadow, A Romantic Dream!-- Not Far I Wander'D O'Er The Peopled Field, Till Socrates And L?Lius I Beheld. Oh, May Their Holy Influence Never Cease That Soothed My Heart-Corroding Pangs To Peace! Unequall'D Friends! No Bard'S Ecstatic Lays Nor Polish'D Prose Your Deathless Name Can Raise To Match Your Genuine Worth! O'Er Hill And Dale We Pass'D, And Oft I Told My Doleful Tale, Disclosing All My Wounds, End Not In Vain: Their Sacred Presence Seem'D To Soothe My Pain. Oh, May That Glorious Privilege Be Mine, Till Dust To Dust The Final Stroke Resign! My Courage They Inspired To Claim The Wreath-- Immortal Emblem Of My Constant Faith To Her Whose Name The Poet'S Garland Bears! Yet Nought From Her, For Long Devoted Years, I Reap'D But Cold Disdain, And Fruitless Tears.-- But Soon A Sight Ensued, That, Like A Spell, Restrain'D At Once My Passion'S Stormy Swell: But This A Loftier Muse Demands To Sing, The Hallow'D Power That Pruned The Daring Wing Of That Blind Force, By Folly Canonized And In The Garb Of Deity Disguised. Yet First The Conscious Muse Designs To Tell How I Endured And 'Scaped His Witching Spell; A Subject That Demands A Muse Of Fire, A Glorious Theme, That Phoebus Might Inspire-- Worthy Of Homer And The Orphean Lyre! Still, As Along The Whirling Chariot Flew, I Kept The Wafture Of His Wings In View: Onward His Snow-White Steeds Were Seen To Bound O'Er Many A Steepy Hill And Dale Profound: And, Victims Of His Rage, The Captive Throng. Chain'D To The Flying Wheels, Were Dragg'D Along, All Torn And Bleeding, Through The Thorny Waste; Nor Knew I How The Land And Sea He Pass'D, Till To His Mother'S Realm He Came At Last. Far Eastward, Where The Vext ?Gean Roars, A Little Isle Projects Its Verdant Shores: Soft Is The Clime, And Fruitful Is The Ground, No Fairer Spot Old Ocean Clips Around; Nor Sol Himself Surveys From East To West A Sweeter Scene In Summer Livery Drest. Full In The Midst Ascends A Shady Hill, Where Down Its Bowery Slopes A Streaming Rill In Dulcet Murmurs Flows, And Soft Perfume The Senses Court From Many A Vernal Bloom, Mingled With Magic; Which The Senses Steep In Sloth, And Drug The Mind In LetHe's Deep, Quenching The Spark Divine--The Genuine Boast Of Man, In Circe'S Wave Immersed And Lost. This Favour'D Region Of The Cyprian Queen Received Its Freight--A Heaven-Abandon'D Scene. Where Falsehood Fills The Throne, While Truth Retires, And Vainly Mourns Her Half-Extinguish'D Fires. Vile In Its Origin, And Viler Still By All Incentives That Seduce The Will, It Seems Elysium To The Sons Of Lust, But A Foul Dungeon To The Good And Just. Exulting O'Er His Slaves, The Winged God Here In A Theatre His Triumphs SHow'd, Ample To Hold Within Its Mighty Round His Captive Train, From Thule'S Northern Bound To Far Taprobane, A Countless Crowd, Who, To The Archer Boy, Adoring, Bow'D. Sad Fantoms Shook Above Their Gorgon Wings-- Fantastic Longings For Unreal Things, And Fugitive Delights, And Lasting Woes; The Summer'S Biting Frost, And Winter'S Rose; And Penitence And Grief, That Dragg'D Along The Royal Lawless Pair, That Poets Sung. One, By His Spartan Plunder, Seal'D The Doom Of Hapless Troy--The Other Rescued Rome. Beneath, As If In Mockery Of Their Woe, The Tumbling Flood, With Murmurs Deep And Low, Return'D Their Wailings; While The Birds Above With Sweet Aerial Descant Fill'D The Grove. And All Beside The River'S Winding Bed Fresh Flowers In Gay Confusion Deck'D The Mead, Painting The Sod With Every Scent And Hue That Flora'S Breath Affords, Or Drinks The Morning Dew, And Many A Solemn Bower, With Welcome Shade, Over The Dusky Stream A Shelter Made. And When The Sun Withdrew His Slanting Ray, And Winter Cool'D The Fervours Of The Day, Then Came The Genial Hours, The Frequent Feast And Circling Times Of Joy And Balmy Rest. New Day And Night Were Poised In Even Scale, And Spring Awoke Her Equinoctial Gale, And Progne Now And Philomel Begun With Genial Toils To Greet The Vernal Sun. Just Then--O Hapless Mortals! That Rely On Fickle Fortune'S Ever-Changing Sky-- E'En In That Season, When, With Sacred Fire, Dan Cupid Seem'D His Subjects To Inspire, That Warms The Heart, And Kindles In The Look, And All Beneath The Moon Obey His Yoke-- I Saw The Sad Reverse That Lovers Own, I Heard The Slaves Beneath Their Bondage Groan; I Saw Them Sink Beneath The Deadly Weight And The Long Tortures That Forerun Their Fate. Sad Disappointments There In Meagre Forms Were Seen, And Feverish Dreams, And Fancied Harms; And Fantoms Rising From The Yawning Tomb Were Seen To Muster In The Gathering Gloom Around The Car; And Some Were Seen To Climb, While Cruel Fate Reversed Their Steps Sublime. And Empty Notions In The Port Were Seen, And Baffled Hopes Were There With Cloudy Mien. There Was Expensive Gain, And Gain That Lost, And Amorous Schemes By Fortune'S Favour Cross'D; And Wearisome Repose, And Cares That Slept. There Was The Semblance Of Disgrace, That Kept The Youth From Dire Mischance On Whom It Fell, And Glory Darken'D On The Gloom Of Hell; Perfidious Loyalty, And Honest Fraud, And Wisdom Slow, And Headlong Thirst Of Blood; The Dungeon, Where The Flowery Paths Decoy; The Painful, Hard Escape, With Long Annoy. I Saw The Smooth Descent The Foot Betray, And The Steep Rocky Path That Leads Again To Day. There In The Gloomy Gulf Confusion Storm'D, And Moody Rage Its Wildest Freaks Perform'D; And Settled Grief Was There; And Solid Night, But Rarely Broke With Fitful Gleams Of Light From Joy'S Fantastic Hand. Not Vulcan'S Forge, When His Cyclopean Caves The Fumes Disgorge; Nor The Deep Mine Of Mongibel, That Throws The Fiery Tempest O'Er Eternal Snows; Nor Lipari, Whose Strong Sulphureous Blast O'Ercanopies With Flames The Watery Waste; Nor Stromboli, That Sweeps The Glowing Sky With Red Combustion, With Its Rage Could Vie.-- Little He Loves Himself That Ventures There, For There Is Ceaseless Woe And Fell Despair: Yet, In This Dolorous Dungeon Long Confined, Till Time Had Grizzled O'Er My Locks, I Pined. There, Dreaming Still Of Liberty To Come, I Spent My Summers In This Noisome Gloom; Yet Still A Dubious Joy My Grief Controll'D, To Spy Such Numbers In That Darksome Hold. But Soon To Gall My Seeming Transport Turn'D, And My Illustrious Partner'S Fate I Mourn'D; And Often Seem'D, With Sympathising Woe, To Melt In Solvent Tears Like Vernal Snow. I Turn'D Away, But, With Inverted Glance, Perused The Fleeting Shapes That Fill'D My Trance; Like Him That Feels A Moment'S Short Delight When A Fine Picture Fleets Before His Sight. Boyd.