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-The annual wound allur'd
HERE beauteous Belmont rears íts modest brow,
To view Sabrina's silver waves below,
Each neighb'ring youth afpir'd to gain her hand,
Young POLYDORE, the pride of rural swains, Was wont to visit Belmont's blooming plains. Who has not heard how Polydore cou'd throw Th' unerring dart to wound the Aying doe? How leave the swiftest at the race behind, How mount the courser, and outstrip the wind? With melting sweetness, or with magic fire, Breathe the soft flute, or strike the louder lyre ? I'rom thar fam'd lyre no vulgar music sprung, The Graces tun'd it and Apollo strung.
Apollo too was once a shepherd (wain,
to wooe, Her joys how precious and her
wants how few ! The favage herds in mute attention Atdod, And ravilh'd Echo fill'd the vocal wood The facred Sisters, stooping from their sphere, Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear.
Till Heaven the scene furvey'd with jealous eyes, And Jove in envy, call'd him to the skies.
Young Polydore was rich in large domains, In smiling pastures, and in flowery plains : With these he boafcd each exterior charm, To win the prudent, and the cold to warm ;