A LETTER FROM ITALY,

TO THE

RIGHT HON. CHARLES LORD HALIFAX,

IN THE YEAR M-DCC I

"Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
"Magna virûm! tibi res antiquæ laudis & artis
"Aggredior, fanctos aufus recludere fontes."

VIRG. Georg. ii.

WHILE you, my Lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public pofts retire,

Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to please,
For their advantage facrifice your eafe;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Confpire to trouble your repose with rhyme.

For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and fhining profpects rife,
Poetic fields incompafs me around,

And ftill I feem to tread on claffic ground;
For here the Muse so oft her harp has ftrung,
That not a mountain rears its head unfung,
Renown'd in verse each fhady thicket grows,
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.
How am I pleas'd to fearch the hills and woods
For rifing fprings and celebrated floods!

To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the fmooth Clitumnus to his fource,
To fee the Mincio draw his watery store,
Through the long windings of a fruitful fhore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide

O'er the warm bed of fmoking fulphur glide.
Fir'd with a thousand raptures, I survey
Eridanus through flowery meadows stray,
The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains,
The towering Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly fwoln with a whole winter's fnows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

Sometimes, mifguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortaliz'd in fong,
That loft in filence and oblivion lie,

(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry)
Yet run for ever by the Mufe's fkill,
And in the smooth description murmur ftill.
Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,

And the fam'd river's empty fhores admire,
That deftitute of ftrength derives its courfe
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source;
Yet fung so often in poetic lays,

With fcorn the Danube and the Nile surveys;
So high the deathless Muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream,
That in Hibernian vales obfcurely stray'd,
And unobserv'd in wild meanders play'd;
Till by your lines and Naffau's fword renown'd,
Its rifing billows through the world refound,

Where'er the Hero's godlike acts can pierce,

Or where the fame of an immortal verfe.

Oh could the Muse my ravish'd breast inspire With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine, And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me smile, That fhun the coast of Britain's stormy isle, Or, when tranfplanted and preferv'd with care, Curfe the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mountain juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents: Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, fome God, to Baia's gentle feats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats; Where western gales eternally refide, And all the seasons lavish all their pride: Bloffoms, and fruits, and flowers together rife, And the whole year in gay confufion lies. Immortal glories in my mind revive, And in my foul a thousand paffions strive, When Rome's exalted beauties I defcry Magnificent in piles of ruin lie. An amphitheatre's amazing height Here fills my eye with terror and delight, That on its public fhows unpeopled Rome, And held, uncrowded, nations in its womb: Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies, And here the proud triumphal arches rise,

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[flow.

Where the old Romans deathlefs acts difplay'd,
Their base degenerate progeny upbraid:
Whole rivers here forfake the fields below,
And wondering at their height through airy channels
Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires,

And the dumb fhow of breathing rocks admires;
Where the smooth chifel all its force has fhown,
And foften'd into flesh the rugged stone.
In folemn filence, a majestic band,
Heroes, and Gods, and Roman confuls stand,
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And emperors in Parian marble frown;

While the bright dames, to whom they humbly fued,
Still show the charms that their proud hearts fubdued.
Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse,
And fhow th' immortal labours in my verfe,
Where from the mingled ftrength of fhade and light
A new creation rises to my fight,

Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colours glow.
From theme to theme with fecret pleasure toft,
Amidst the soft variety I'm loft:

Here pleafing airs my ravish'd soul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of found;
Here domes and temples rife in distant views,
And opening palaces invite my Muse.

How has kind heaven adorn'd the happy land,
And scatter'd bleffings with a wasteful hand!
But what avail her unexhaufted ftores,

Her blooming mountains, and her funny fhores,

With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart,
The fmiles of nature, and the charms of art,
While proud oppreffion in her valleys reigns,
And tyranny ufurps her happy plains?
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain

The reddening orange and the fwelling grain :
Joylefs he fees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle's fragrant fhade repines:
Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curft,
And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.

Oh Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright,
Profufe of blifs, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy prefence reign,
And fmiling plenty leads thy wanton train ;
Eas'd of her load subjection grows more light,
And poverty looks chearful in thy fight;
Thou mak'ft the gloomy face of nature gay,
Giv'ft beauty to the fun, and pleasure to the day.
Thee, goddefs, thee, Britannia's isle adores;
How has fhe oft exhausted all her ftores,
How oft in fields of death thy prefence fought,
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!
On foreign mountains may the fun refine

The grape's foft juice, and mellow it to wine,
With citron groves adorn a distant soil,
And the fat olive fwell with floods of oil:
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,
Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine,
Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine :