STROPHE.

The curlew scream'd, the Tritons blew Their shells to celebrate the ravish'd rite; Old Time exulted as he flew, And Independence saw the light; The light he saw in Albion's happy plains, Where, under cover of a flowering thorn, While Philomel renew'd her warbled strains, The auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was born. The mountain Dyriads seized with joy The smiling infant to their charge consign'd; The Doric Muse caress'd the favourite boy; The hermit Wisdom stored his opening mind: As rolling years matured his age, He flourish'd bold and sinewy as his sire; While the mild passions in his breast assuage The fiercer flames of his maternal fire.