The wretched father running to their aid,

With pious haste, but vain, they next invade.

Dryden.

Last with her martial troops all sheathed in brass,

Camilla came, a queen of Volscian race;

Nor were the web or loom the virgin’s care,

But arms and coursers, and the toils of war.

She led the rapid race, and left behind

The flagging floods, and pinions of the wind:

Lightly she flies along the level plain,

Nor hurts the tender grass, nor bends the golden grain.

Pitt.

To Forum-Appii thence we steer, a place

Stuff’d with rank boatmen, and with vintners base.

Francis.

And the steep hills of Circe stretch around,

Where fair Feronia boasts her stately grove,

And Anxur glories in her guardian Jove;

Where stands the Pontine lake——

Pitt.

From whom the illustrious race arose,

Who first possessed the Formian towers.

Francis.

——the rich fields that Liris laves,

Where silent roll his deepning waves.

Francis.

Pure spirits these; the world no purer knows;

For none my heart with such affection glows.

How oft did we embrace! our joys how great!

Is there a blessing, in the power of fate,

To be compared, in sanity of mind,

To friends of such companionable kind?

Francis.

The knight of Aglant now has couch’d his spear,

Where closely prest the men and arms appear:

First one, and then another, helpless dies;

Thro’ six at once the lance impetuous flies,

And in the seventh inflicts so deep a wound,

That prone he tumbles lifeless to the ground.

Hoole.

Thus by some standing pool or marshy place,

We see an archer slay the croaking race

With pointed arrow, nor the slaughter leave,

Till the full weapon can no more receive.

Hoole.

May Tibur, to my latest hours,

Afford a kind and calm retreat;

Tibur, beneath whose lofty towers,

The Græcians fix’d their blissful seat.

Francis.

The walls of the moist Tibur then flood,

which was founded by the Greeks.

For little folks become their little fate,

And at my age, not Rome’s imperial seat,

...

But Tibur’s solitude my taste can please.

Pan from Arcadia’s heights descends,

To visit oft my rural seat——

Francis.

But as a bee, which thro’ the shady groves,

Feeble of wing, with idle murmurs roves,

Sips on the bloom, and, with unceasing toil,

From the sweet thyme extracts his flow’ry spoil,

So I, weak bard! round Tibur’s lucid spring,

Of humble strain laborious verses sing.

Francis.

But me not patient Lacedæmon charms,

Nor fair Larissa with such transport warms,

As pure Albuneus’ rock resounding source,

And rapid Anio, headlong in his course,

Or Tibur, fenced by groves from solar beams,

And fruitful orchards bath’d by ductile dreams.

Francis.

The woods all thunder’d, and the mountains shook,

The lake of Trivia heard the note profound.

...

Pale at the piercing call, the mothers prest

With shrieks their starting infants to the breast.

Pitt.

The man in conscious virtue bold,

Who dares his secret purpose hold,

Unshaken hears the crowd’s tumultuous cries,

And the stern tyrant’s brow —— —— defies.

Francis.

If they, who through the venturous ocean range,

Not their own passions, but the climate, change;

Anxious thro’ seas and land to search for rest,

Is but laborious idleness at best.

Francis.