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But now, fircc old Envenio dy'd The chief of poets, and the pride Now, meaner bards in rain aspire To raise their voice, to tune their lyre ! Their lovely season, now, is o'er! Thy notes, Florelio, please no moit! No more Asteria's smiles are seen ! Adieu !--the sweets of Barel s-green!

Come then, resume thy chaming lyre,

And sing some patriot's worth sublime, Whilft I in fields of soft defire

Consume my fair and fruitless prime ; Whose reed alpires but to display The flame that burns me night and day. O come! the dryads of the woods

Shall daily frothe thy studious mind, The blue-ey'd nymphs of yonder foods

hall meet and court thee to be kind ; And l'ane fits listening for thy lays To swell her trump with Lucio's praise. Like me, the plover fondly tries

To lure the sporsmen from her nest, And fluttering on with anxious cries,

Too plainly shows her tortur'd breast : o let him, conscious of her care, Pity her pains, and learn to spare.





To the Right Hon. Sir Richard Lyttleton,

HY o'er the verdant banks of Ooze

Does yonder halcyon speed so fast ? 'Tis all because she would not lose

Her favourite calm that will not last. The fun with azure paints the skies,

The stream reflects each flowery spray: And frugal of her time she fies

To take her fill of love and play.
See her, when rugged Boreas blows,

Warm in some rocky cell remain;
To séck for pleasure, well the knows,

Would only then enhance the pain.
Descend, she cries, thou hated fhower,

Deform my limpid waves to-day, For I have chose a fairer hour

o take my fill of love and play, You too, my Silvia, sure will own

Life's azure seasons (wiftiy roll:
And when our youth our health is flown,

To think of love but shocks the foul.
Could Damon but deserve thy charms,

And thou art Damon's only theme; He'd fly as quick to Delia's arms,

As yonder halcyon Ikims the stream.


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HE morn dispens'd a dubious light

A sullen mist had stol'n from sight
Each pleasing vale and hill ;
When Damon left his humble bowers,
To guard his flocks, tu fence his fiowers,

Or check his wandering rill.
Though school'd from fortune's paths to fly,
The Twain beneath cach lowering sky,

Would oft his fate bemoan;
That he in sylvan lades, forlorn !
Must waste his chearless ev'n and morn.

Nor prais'd, nor lov'd, nor known.
No friend to fame's obftreperous noise,
Yet to the whispers of her voice,

Soft murmuring, not a foe :
The pleasures he throngh choice declin'd,
When gloomy fogs depressid his mind,

It griev'd him to forego.
Griev'd him to lurk the lakes beside,
Where coots in ruhy dingles hide,

And moorcocks il:un the day;
While caitiff bitterns, undismay'l,
Remark the swain's familiar fhade,

And scorn to quit their prey.
But fee, the radiant sun once more
The brightning face of heaven restore,

And raise the doubtful dawn;
And, more to gild his rural sphere,
At once the brightes train appear,

That ever trod the lawn.
Amazement chill'd the shepherd's srame,
To think * Bridgewater's honour'd nanie
Should grace his rustic cell ;


So well our minds and tempers blend; That seasons may for ever fiec,

And ne'er divide me from my friend;
But let the favour'd boy forbear
To tempt with love my only fair.
O lycon, born when every Muse,

When every Grace henigvarat smild, With ali a parent's breast could chuse

To bles; her lov’d, her only child: "Tis thine so richly grac'd to prove More noble cares, than cares of love. Together ve from early youth

Have grof the flowery tracks of time, Together mu'd in search of truth,

O'er learnei fage, or bard sublime ;
And vell thy wltur'd breast I know,
W nat wonderolitseasure it cal: Now,

* The Duchess, married to Sir R. Lyttleton.


That se, on all whose motions wait
Distinction, title, rank, and late,

Should rove where shepherds dwell.
But true it is, the generous mind,
By candour (way'd, by talle refin'd,

Will nought but vice disdain ;
Nor will the breast where fancy glows
Deem every lower a weed that blows

Amid the desert plain.
Beseems it such, with honour crown'd,
To deal its lucid beams around,

Nor equal meed receive :
At most such garlands from the field,
Aa cowslips, pinks, and panlies yield,

And rural hands can weave.
Yet strive ye shepherds, strive to find,
And weave the fairest of the kind,

The prime of all the spring ;
If haply thus yon lovely fair
May round their temples deign to wear.

The trivial wreaths you bring.
O how the peaceful halcyons play'd
Where'er the consciouz lake betray'd

Athenia's placid mien ;
How did the sprightlier linnets throng,
Where Paphia's charms requir'd the song,

'Mid hazel copses green :
Lo, Dartmouth on those banks reclin'd,
While busy fancy calls to mind

The glories of his line ;
Methinks my cottage rears its head,
The ruin'd walls of yonder thed,

As through enchantment, shine.
But who the nymph that guides their way?
Could ever nymph defcend to stray

From Hagley's fam'd retreat ?
Else, by the blooming features fair
The faultless make, the matchless air,

'fwerc.Cynthia's form compleat, So would some cuberofe delight, That struck the pilgrim's wandering fight

'Mid lonely delerts drear ;
All as at eve, the sovereign flower
Dispenses round its balmy power,

And crowns the fragrant year.'
Ah, now no more, the shepherd cry'd,
Muit I ambition's charms deride,

Her fubtie force disown,
No more of fawns or fairies dream,
While fancy, near cach crystal stream,

Shall paint these forms alone.
By low-brow'd rock, or pathless mead,
I deem'd that splendour ne'er shou d lead

My dazzled eyes altray ;
But who alas! will dare contend,
If bcauty add, or merit blend

Its more illustrious ray ?
Nor is it long-O plaintive (wain !
Since Guerniey faw without disdain,

Vihers, hid in woodlands green,

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partner of his early days,
And once the rival of his praise

Had stol'n through life unseen,
Scarce faded is the vernal flower,
Since Stamford left his honour'd bower

To smile familiar here :
O form’d by nature to disclose
How fair that courtesey which flows

From social warmth fincere.
Nor yet have many moons decay'd,
Since Pollio fought this lonely shade,

Admir'd this rural maze:
The noblest breast that virtue fires,
The Graces love, the Muse inspires,

Might pant for Pollio's praise.
Say Thomson here was known to rest,
For him yon vernal feat I drest,

Ah! never to return !
In place of wit, and melting strains,
And social,mirth, it now remains

belide his urn.
Come then, my Lælius, come once more,
And fringe the melancholy shore

With roses and with bays,
While I each wayward fate accuse,
That envy'd his impartial Muse

To lip. your early praise.
While Philo, to whose favour'd fight,
Antiquity, with full delight,

Hur in most wealth displays ;
Beneath yon ruins moulder'd wall
Shall muse, aud with hia freind recal

The pomp of ancient days,
Here too shall Conway's nam appear,
He prais’d the stream so lovely clear,

That thone the reeds among;
Yet clearness could it rot disclose,
To match the rhetoric that flows

From Conway s polish'd tongue. Ev'n Pitt, whose fervent periods roll Reliftless ! through the kindling foul

Of fenates. councils, kings ! Though form'd for courts, vouchsaf d to rave Inglorious, through the shepherd's grove, And ope

his ba iful iprmgs. But what can courts discover more, Than these rude haunts hive seen before,

Each fount and inady tree? Have not thcle trees and fountains scen i he pride of courts, the winning micn.

o peerless Aylesbury ?
And Grenville, shę whole radiant eyes,
Have mark d by low gradation rise

The princely piles of Stow;
Yet prais’d these unembellith'd woods,
And snil'd to see the babbling fioods'

Through self-worn mazes ilow.


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Say Dartmouth, who your banks admir'd, And see, the swallows new disown
Again beneath your caves retir'd,

The roofs they lov'd before;
Shall grace che pensive shade ;

Each, like his tuneful genius, flown With all the bloom, with all the truth,

To glad some hapzier fore, With all the sprightliness of youth,

The wood-nymhp eyes, with pale affright, By cool reflection (way'd ?

The sportsman's.frantic deed ; Brave, yet humane, shall Smith appear,

While hounds and horns and yells unite
Ye sailors, though his name be dear,

To drown the Musc's reed.
Think him not yours alone :
Grant him in other spheres to charm,

Ye fiélds with blighted herbage brown,
The shepherds' breasts though mild are warm,

Ye skies no longer blue ! And ours are all his own.

Too much we feel from fortune's frown,

To bear these frowns from you.
O Lyttleton ! my honour'd guest,
Could I describe thy generous breast'

Where is the mead's unsullied green?
Thy firm, yet polith'd mind;

The zephyr's balmy gale? How public love adorns thy name,

And where sweet friendship’s cordial mien, How fortune too conspires with fame;

That brightend every vale? The song should please mankind.

What though the vine disclose her dyes,

And boast her purple store;
Not all the vineyard's rich supplies

Can foothe our forrows more.

He! he is gone, whose moral strain

Could wit and mirth refine; Written towards the close of the year | He! he is gone, whose social vein 1748, to William Lyttleton, Esq. Surpass’d the


of wine. row blithely pass'd the summer's day!

Fait by the streams he deign'd to praisc,
How bright was every flower!

In yon fequefter'd grove,
While friends arriv’d, in circles gay,

To him a votive urn I raise; To visit Damon's bower!

To him, and friendly love. But now, with silent step, I range

Yes, there, my friend! forlorn and fad, Along some lonely fhore;

I grave your Thomson's name; And Damon's bower, alas the change!

And there, his lyre; which fate forbad Is gay with friends no more.

To found your growing fame. Away to crowds and cities borne

There shall my plaintive song recount In quet of joy they steer ;

Dark themes of hopeless woe? Whilft i, alas! am left forlorn,

And faster than the drooping fount,
To weep the parting year!

I'll teach mine eyes to flow.
Opensive Autumn ! how I grieve
Thy sorrowing face to see !

There leaves, in spite of Autumn green,
When languid funs are taking leave

Shall shade the hallow'd ground; Of every drooping tree.

And Spring will there again be seen,

To call forth flowers around.
Ah let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey!

But now kind suns will bid me share,
Haste, Winter, haste; usurp the ky;

Once more, his social hour ; Complete my bower's decay.

Ah Spring ! thou never canst repair
Ill can I bear the motley cast

This loss, to Damon's bower.
Yon Sickning leaves retain;
That speak at once of pleasures paft,

And bode approaching pain.
At home unblest, I gaze around,

My distant scenes require;
Where all in murky vapours drown'd
Are hamlet, hill and spire.

Written at Oxford, when young.
Though Thempfon, sweet descriptive bard!
Inspiring Autumn sung;

HALL Love alone for ever claim Yet how hould we the months regard,

An universal right to fame, That stopp'd his flowing tongue ?

An undisputed sway? Ah luckless months, of all the reft,

Or has not music equal charms To whose hard fhare it fell !

To fill the breast with strange alarms, For sure he was the gentleft brcalt

And makc the world obey? That ever song so well.



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The Thracian Bard, as Poets tell,
Could mirigate the powers of hell;

Evn Pluto's nicer ear :
His arts, no more than Love's, we find
To dities or een confin'd,

Drew brutes in crouds to hear.
Whatever favourite pallion reign's,
The Pot fill his right maintain'd

O'er ali chat rang'd the plain :
The fiercer tyrants could assuage,
Or fir- the timorous into rage,

Whene'er he chang'd the strain.
In milder lays the Bard began ?
Soft notes through every finger ran,

And echoing charmi'd the place :
See ! fawning lions gaze around,
And taught to quit their favage sound,

Assume a gentler grace.
When Cymon view'd the fair-one's charms,
Her ruby lips, and snowy arms,

And told her beauties o'er :
When love reform'd his aukward cone,
And made each clownish gelture known,

It shew'd but equal power.
The Bard now tries a sprightlier sound,
When all the feather'd race around

Perceive the varied strains ;
The soaring lark the note pursues ;
The timorous dove around him cooes,

And Philomel complains.
An equal power of Love I 've seen
Incite the deer to scour the green,

And chase his barking foe.
Sometimes has Love, with greater might,
To challen e-nay-sometimes to fight

Provok'd th' cnamour'd beau.
When Sylvia treads the smiling plain,
How glows the heart of every swain,

By pleasing tumults tost !
When Handel's folemn accents roll,
Each breast is fir’d, each saptur'd soul

In sweet confusion loft.
If she her melting glances dart,
Or he his dying airs impart,

Our spirits sink away.
Inough, enough! dear nymph, give o'er i
And thou, great artift ! urge no more

Thy unrelifted sway.
Thus Love or sound affects the mind :
But when their various powers are joan do

Fly, daring mortal, fly !
For when Selinda's charms appear,
And I her tuneful accenta hear

I burn, I faini, I die!

Did each alike perfection bear,
What beauty, though divinely fair,

Could admiration raise ?
Amidst the lucid bands of night,
See! Hesperus, serenely bright,

Adorns the diftant skies :
But languishes amidft the blaze
Of sprightly Sol's meridian rays, -

Or Silvia's brighter eyes.
Whene'er the nightingale complains,
I like the melancholy strains,

And prai'e the tuneful bird :
But vainly mighe the strain her throat,
Vainly exalt each swelling note,

Should Silvia's voice be heard..
When, on the violet's purple bed,
Supine I rest my weary head,

The fragrant pillow charms :
Yet soon fuch languid bliss I'd fly,
Wouid Silvia but the loss supply,

And take me to'her arms.
The alabaner's wonderous white,
The marble's polish strikes my light,

When Silvia is not feen :
But ah! how faint that white is grown,
How rough appears the polish'd tone,

Compar'd with Silvia's mien ! The rose, that'o'er the Cyprian plains, With flowers enamel'd, blooming reigas,

With undisputed power, Plac'd near her cheeks celestial red, (les purple lost, its lustre fled,)

Delights the sense no more.

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On the approach of SPRING.

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O.W in the cowlip's dewy cell

The fairies make their bed,
They hover round the cryftal well,

The turf in circles tread.
The lovely linnet now her fong

Tunes sweetest in the wood;
The twittering swallow skims along

The azure liquid flond.
The morning breeze wafts Flora's kiss

la fragrance to the sense;
The happy shepherd feels the bliss,

And the takes no offence.
But not che linncc's sweetest song

That ever fill'd the wood;
Or twittering swallow that along

The azure liquid tiood
Skims swiftly, harbinger of spring,

Or morning's sweeteit breath,
Or Flora's kiss, ko me can bring

A remedy for death.


' "Is by comparison we know

On every object to bestow Its proper fare of praise :


For death-what do I say? Yes, death

But curse on party's hateful strife, Must surely end my days,

That led the favour'd youth astray; lf cruel Cynthia flights my faith,

The day the rebel clans appear'd, And will not hear muy lays.

O had he never seen that day! No more with festive garlands bound,

Their colours and their fashi he wore, I at the wake shall be;

And in the fatal dress was found; No more my feet fall press the ground

And now he must that death endure, In dance with wonted glee;

vi hich gives the brave the keeneit wound. No more my little flock I'll keep,

How pale was then his true-love's cheek, To fome dark cave l’ll fly;

When Jimmy's sentence reachid her ear! I've nothing now to do but weep,

For never yet did Alpine (nows To mourn my fate, and figh.

do pale, or yet so chill appear. Ah! Cynthia, thy Damon's cries

With faultering voice, she weeping said, Are heard at dead of night;

Oh Diwson, monarch of my heart; But they, alas! are doom'd to rise

Think not thy death shall end our loves, Like smoak upon the fight.

For thou and I will never part. They rise in vain, ah me! in vain

Yet might sweet mercy find a place, Are scatter'd in the wind;

And bring relief to Jemmy's woes ; Cynthia does not know the pain.

O George, without a prayer for thee, That rankles in my mind.

My orizons fhould never close. If fleep perhaps my eye-lids close,

The gracious prince that gave him lise, 'Tis but to dream of you;

Would crown a never-dying flame ; A while I cease to feel my woes,

And every tender babe I bore Nay; think I'm happy too.

Should learn to lisp the giver's name. I think I press with kisses pure,

But though he should be dragg'd in scorn Your lovely rosy lips ,

To yonder ignominious tree; And you're my bride. I think I'm sure,

He shall not want one constant friend Till gold the mountain tips.

To share the cruel lates' decree. When wak'd, aghast I look around,

O then her mourning coach was callid, And find my, charmer fown;

The fledge mov'd slowly on before, Then bleeds afreth my galling wound,

Though borne in a triumphal car, While I am leit alone.

She had not lov'u her favourite more. Take pity then, O gentlest maid!

She follow'd him, prepard to view On thy poor Damon's heart::

The terrible behelts of law; Remember what I've often said,

And the lait scene of Jemmy's woes, 'Tis you can cure my snart.

With calm and ttedfait eye she saw.
Distorted was that blooming face,

Which she had fondly lov’d so long;
And lified was that tuneful breath,

Which in her praise had sweetly sung.

And sever'd was that beauteous neck,

Round which her arnis had fondly closd; A Ballad, written about the time of his And mangled was that beauteous breast, Execution, in the year 1745.

On which her love-lick head repos'd :

And ravish'd was that constant heart, NOME listen to my mournful cale,

She did to every heart prefer ;

For though it could its King forget, Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,

'I'was true and loyal still to her. Nor nece you bluíh to shed a tear.

Amid these unrelenting flames, And thou, dear K tty, peerless maid,

She bore this constant heart to see; Do thou a pensive ear incline;

But when 'twas moulder'd into dust, For thou canst weep at every woe;

Tet, yet, fhe cryd, I follow thee, And pity every plaintbut mine.

My death, lay death alone can fhew Young Dawson was a gallant boy,

The pure, the lasting love I bore ; A brighter never trou the plain ;

Accepi, o heaven! of woes like ours, And well he lov'd one charmiig maid,

And let us, let us weep no more, Ard dearly was he lov'd again.

The dismal scene was o'er and past, Ove tender maid, the lov'd him dear

The lover's mournsal hea, se recir'd; Of gentle blood the dimsel came;

The maid drew back her languid head, And faultless was her beauteous form,

And, lighing forth his name, expir'd.

Thougi And Ipotless was her virgin fanie,

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