THE

BLEEDING ROCK;

A

LEGENDARY TALE.

W

HERE beauteous Belmont rears its modeft brow,
To view Sabrina's filver waves below,

Liv'd LINDAMIRA; fair as Beauty's Queen,

The fame fweet form, the fame enchanting mein,
With all that fofter elegance of mind
By genius heighten'd, and by tafte refin'd.
Yet early was the doom'd the child of care,
For love, ill-fated love fubdu'd the fair.
Ab! what avails each captivating grace,
The form enchanting, or the finifh'd face;
Or what each beauty on the heaven-born mind,
The foul fuperior or the tafte refin'd?
Beauty but ferves destruction to infure,
And fenfe, to feel the pang it cannot cure,

Each neighb'ring youth afpir'd to gain her hand,
And many a fuitor came from many a land,
But all in vain each neighb'ring youth afpir'd,
And diftant fuitors all in vain admir'd.
Averfe to hear, yet fearful to offend,
'The lover fhe refus'd fhe made a friend:
Her meek rejection wore fo mild a face,
More like acceptance feem'd it than difgrace.

Young POLYDORE, the pride of rural fwains, Was wont to vifit Belmont's blooming plains. Who has not heard how Polydore cou'd throw Th' unerring dart to wound the flying doe? How leave the fwifteft at the race behind, How mount the courfer, and outftrip the wind? With melting fweetnefs, or with magic fire, Breathe the foft flute, or ftrike the louder lyre? From that fam'd lyre no vulgar mufic fprung, The Graces tun'd it and Apollo ftrung.

Apollo too was once a fhepherd swain, And fed the flock, and grac'd the ruftic plain, He taught what charms to rural life belong, The focial fweetnefs, and the fylvan fong:. He taught fair Wifdam in her grove to wooe, Her joys how precious and her wants how few! The favage herds in mute attention stood, And ravish'd Echo fill'd the vocal wood The facred Sifters, stooping from their sphere, Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear. Till Heaven the fcene furvey'd with jealous eyes, And Jove in envy, call'd him to the fkies..

Young Polydore was rich in large domains, In fmiling paftures, and in flowery plains: With these he boasted each exterior charm, To win the prudent, and the cold to warm;

To act the tenderness he never felt,
In forrow foften, and in anguifh melt.
The figh elaborate, the fraudful tear,
The joy diffembled, and the well-feign'd fear,
All these were his; and his the treacherous art
That fteals the guilelefs and unpractis'd heart.

Too foon he heard of Lindamira's fame, 'Twas each enamour'd Shepherd's fav'rite theme: Return'd the rifing, and the fetting fun,

The Shepherd's fav'rite theme was never done.
They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her air!
And even inferior beauties thought her fair.

Such fweet perfection all his wonder mov'd;
He faw, admir'd, nay fancied that he lov d:
But Polydore no real paffion knew,

Loft to all truth in feigning to be true.
No fenfe of tendernefs could warm a heart,
Too proud to feel, too felfifh to impart.

Cold as the fnows of Rhodope defcend,
And with the chilling waves of Hebrus blend;
So cold the breaft where Vanity prefides,
And mean felf-love the bofom-feelings guides,

Too well he knew to make his conqueft fure,
Win her foft heart, yet keep his own fecure.
So oft he told the well imagin'd tale,

So oft he swore-how fhould he not prevail?
Too unfufpecting not to be deceiv'd,`
The well-imagined tale the nymph believ'd;
She lov'd the youth, fhe thought herself belov'd
Nor blufh'd to praife whom every maid approv'd.

Alas! that youth from Lindamira far
For newer conquefts wages cruel war;
With other nymphs on other plains he roams,
Where injur'd Lindamira never comes;
Laughs at her eafy faith, infults her woe,
Nor pities tears himself had taught to flow.

And now her eye's foft radiance feem'd to fail, And now the crimson of her cheek grew pale; The lilly there, in faded beauty, fhews Its fickly empire o'er the vanquifh'd rofe. Devouring forrow marks her for his prey, And flow and certain mines his filent way. Yet, as apace her ebbing life declin'd, Increasing ftrength fuftain'd her firmer mind. "O had my heart been, hard as his," she cried, An hapless victim thus I had not died :

"If there be gods, and gods there furely are, Infulted virtue doubtlefs is their care.

"Then haften righteous Heaven! my tedious fate, "Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date:

Quick let your power transform this failing frame, "Let me be any thing but what I am!

"And fince the cruel woes I'm doom'd to feel, « Proceed, alas! from having lov'd too well; "Grant me fome form where love can have no part, "Nor human weakness reach my guarded heart. "If pity has not left your bleft abodes, "Change me to flinty adamant, ye Gods; "To hardest rock, or monumental stone, "Rather than let me know the pangs I've known, "So fhall I thus no farther torments prove, "Nor taunting rivals fay, he died for love.' "For fure if aught can aggravate our fate, "'Tis fcorn, or pity from the breast we hate." She faid, the Gods accord the fad request; For when were pious pray'rs in vain addrefi ?