Page:Poems (Barbauld).djvu/103

 No tedfat faith is here, no ure repoe; An armed truce is all this nation knows: The rage of battle works, when battles ceae; And wars are brooding in the lap of peace. Since wills, and I a wretch mut be, Let me be afe at leat in miery! To my ad grave in calm oblivion teal, Nor add the woes I fear to all I feel! Ye tuneful maids! who once, in happier days, Beneath the myrtle grove inpir'd my lays, How hall I now your wonted aid implore; Where eek your footteps on this avage hore, Whoe ruder echoes ne'er were taught to bear The poet's numbers or the lover's care?

&emsp;Yet here, forever here, your bard mut dwell, Who ung of ports and tender loves o well. Here mut he live: but when he yields his breath O let