There, while their sweets thy myrtle groves dispense,
Lead to the Sabine or the Tuscan plain,
Where playful Horace tun'd his amorous strain,
And Tully pour'd the stream of eloquence;
Nor fail to crown him with that ivy bloom,
Which graceful mantles o'er thy Maro's tomb,
At that blest spot, from vulgar cares refin'd,
In some soft vision or indulgent dream
Inspire his fancy with a glorious theme,
And point new subjects to his generous mind,
At once to charm his country, and improve
The last, the youngest object of his love.
But O! mark well his transports in that shade,
Where circled by the bay's unfading green,
Amidst a rural and sequester'd scene
His much-lov'd Pliny rests his honour'd head:
There, rapt in silence, will he gaze around,
And strew with sweetest flowers the hallow'd grown.