THE BLEEDING ROCK, A LEGENDARY TALE. -The annual wound allur'd The Syrien damfels to lament his fate, MILTON. N WHERE beauteous Belmont rears its modeft brow, To view Sabrina's filver waves below, ; By genius heighten'd, and by tafte refin'd. Each neighb'ring youth afpir'd to gain her hand, Young POLYDORE, the pride of rural fwains, Was wont to vifit Belmont's blooming plains. Who has not heard how Polydore cou'd throw Th' unerring dart to wound the flying doe? How leave the fwifteft at the race behind, How mount the courfer, and outftrip the wind? With melting fweetness, or with magic fire, Breathe the foft flute, or ftrike the louder lyre ? From that fam'd lyre no vulgar music sprung, The Graces tun'd it and Apollo ftrung. Apollo too was once a fhepherd fwain, And fed the flock, and grac'd the ruftic plain, He taught what charms to rural life belong, The focial fweetnefs, and the fylvan fong: He taught fair Wisdom in her grove to wooe, Her joys how precious and her wants how few! The favage herds in mute attention stdǝd, And ravish'd Eche fill'd the vocal wood The facred Sifters, ftooping from their sphere, Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear. Till Heaven the fcene furvey'd with jealous eyes, And Jove in envy, call'd him to the skies. Young Polydore was rich in large domains, In fmiling paftures, and in flowery plains: With thefe he boafted each exterior charm, To win the prudent, and the cold to warm ; |