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 Or when the young Euryalus is kill'd, And rolls in death along the bloody field; Like some fair flow'r beneath the share he lies, His head declin'd, and drooping as he dies; The reader's soul is touch'd with gen'rous woe, He longs to rush with Nisus on the Foe; He burns with friendly pity to the dead, To raise the youth, and prop his sinking head; And strives in vain to stop the gushing blood, That stains his bosom with a purple flood.


 * if the bard such images pursues,

That raise the blushes of the virgin-muse; Let them be slightly touch'd, and ne'er exprest, Give but a hint, and let us guess the rest; If Jove commands the gath'ring storms to rise, And with deep thunders rends the vaulted skies, In the same cave together may be seen The Trojan hero, and the Tyrian queen; The poet's modesty must add no more; Enough, that earth had giv'n the sign before; The