Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine: Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine; Her gods, and god-like heroes rise to view, And all her faded garlands bloom anew. Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage; These pleased the fathers of poetic rage; 50 The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, And Art reflected images to Art. Oh! when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living medals see her wars enroll'd, And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold? Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face; There, warriors frowning in historic brass: Then future ages with delight shall see How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; 60 Or in fair series laurell'd bards be shown, A Virgil there, and here an Addison. Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine; With aspect open, shall erect his head, And round the orb in lasting notes be read, 'Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear; Who broke no promise, served no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; 70 Ennobled by himself, by all approved, And praised, unenvied, by the Muse he loved.' TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. SAPPHO TO PHAON. FROM THE FIFTEENTH OF OVID'S EPISTLES. Say, lovely youth, that dost my heart command, Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand? Must then her name the wretched writer prove, To thy remembrance lost, as to thy love? Ask not the cause that I new numbers choose, The lute neglected and the lyric Muse; Love taught my tears in sadder notes to flow, And tuned my heart to elegies of woe, I burn, I burn, as when through ripen'd corn By driving winds the spreading flames are borne! 10 Phaon to AEtna's scorching fields retires, While I consume with more than AEtna's fires! No more my soul a charm in music finds; Music has charms alone for peaceful minds. Soft scenes of solitude no more can please; Love enters there, and I'm my own disease. No more the Lesbian dames my passion move, Once the dear objects of my guilty love; All other loves are lost in only thine, Ah, youth ungrateful to a flame like mine! 20 Whom would not all those blooming charms surprise, Those heavenly looks, and dear deluding eyes! The harp and bow would you like Phoebus bear, A brighter Phoebus Phaon might appear; Would you with ivy wreath your flowing hair, Not Bacchus' self with Phaon could compare: Yet Phoebus loved, and Bacchus felt the flame, One Daphne warm'd, and one the Cretan dame; Nymphs that in verse no more could rival me, Than e'en those gods contend in charms with thee. 30 The Muses teach me all their softest lays, And the wide world resounds with Sappho's praise. Though great Alcaeus more sublimely sings, And strikes with bolder rage the sounding strings, No less renown attends the moving lyre, Which Venus tunes, and all her loves inspire.