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Nor, with the $ rhombus' rumbling roll,

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The pining lover's wounds can cure;
Or, if by Charon ferry'd o'er,
Can fetch him from the Stygian shore.

NOTHING has influence, Sir, to rule

The grisly Pluto's ruthlefs foul ;

To curb the rigid Sisters three,

And stem the force of destiny.

Stretch'd on the fam'd § Phlegræa's field,

And taught by mightier pow'r to yield,


† A kind of rolling instrument, which was used in incantations.

| The herb Dictamnum, famous for its medicinal virtues.

f The plains of Phlegråa are noted for the battle faid to be fought there, between the giants and the gods.

The Titan offspring NOTHING prove

More pow'rful than the bolts of Jove.

NOTHING, how strange to tell ! is found

Beyond the univerfal round.

NOTHING—but wherefore add we more?

NOTHING ev'n gods themselves adore.

Virtue to merit has pretence,

Nothing has greater excellence.

In fine, let Jove his honours claim,

NOTHING can boast a higher name.

But hold ! no more the theme prolong,

'Tis time to end a silly fong;

No more of Nothing, muse, rehearse,

In this thy good for Nothing verse,

Leít, after all, a theme so light,

Should NOTHING but difgust excite.



S T R A D A.

Now Sol, descending from his mid-day blaze,

With mild effulgence shot his golden rays ;

When Strephon took his lyre to footh his care,

And pour’d its music through the filent air,

Where Tiber's streams in pleasing murmurs flow,

And the broad holm-oaks cool the vale below.

His strains the jealous Philomela move,
The sweetest Syren of the neighb’ring grove.

Behind the verdant spray she hears unseen,

And, envious, echos each melodious strain.

Keen emulation swells her little throat,

To try her pow'rs, and warble note for note.

Strephon admir’d the songster's sweet essay,

And strove again to wake the vocal lay;



Now the full music of his lyre explores,


Or shews, with flying hand, a master's pow'rs.
In vary'd strains the bird renews her song,

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In many a labour'd trill it flows along,

Thus with responding zeal her skill she proves,
When o’er the strings the swain his finger moves,

And careless feem'd his touch, the music flow;

Its simple sounds in even tenor flow.

Instant the chords his hurrying finger plies,

The quicken’d tones in rapid movement rise.

He stops : responsive to each note she sings ;

With equal pow’rs she imitates his strings.

As one perplex’d, what other strain to chuse,

One plain, unvary'd tune the bird pursues ;

No quaver mixes in her artless note,

Free, like the current, issuing from her throat.


Now quick and light the warbled numbers move
In trembling echos, through the vocal grove.

This Strephon heard, in transports of amaze,

That such a throat should utter strains like these ;

Again new efforts of his art he tries,

Through all the scale of sounds his finger Aies ;

In concord bids the shrill and bass unite;

So the loud clarion fires the foul to fight.
Again the Syren sings: and, whilft her tongue
In well-tim'd warblings thrills through all her song,

To louder harmony she swells the note,

Then rolls the deep’ning murmur in her throat;

Now Thrill and clear her song, now deep and low ;

So clarions urge the soldier to the foe.

Strephon now bluíh’d, with glowing ire inflam’d,

« Or Philomel shall yield,” he quick exclaim’d,

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