Say Dartmouth, who your banks admir'd, Shall grace the pensive shade; By cool reflection fway'd? Brave, yet humane, fhall Smith appear, O Lyttleton! my honour'd gueft, VERSES, Written towards the clofe of the year 1748, to William Lyttleton, Efq. H "OW blithely pafs'd the fummer's day! But now, with filent step, I range Ah let me not, with heavy eye, Ill can I bear the motley caft Yon fickning leaves retain ; That speak at once of pleasures past, At home unbleft, I gaze around, My diftant scenes require; Where all in murky vapours drown'd Are hamlet, hill and spire. Though Thompson, fweet defcriptive bard! Yet how fhould we the months regard, Ah lucklefs months, of all the reft, To whofe hard fhare it fell! For fure he was the gentleft breaft That ever fang fo well. And fee, the fwallows new difown The roofs they lov'd before; The wood-nymhp eyes, with pale affright, Ye fields with blighted herbage brown, Too much we feel from fortune's frown, And where sweet friendship's cordial mien, What though the vine disclose her dyes, Can foothe our forrows more. He! he is gone, whofe moral strain Faft by the streams he deign'd to praise, To him, and friendly love. Yes, there, my friend! forlorn and fad, There fhall my plaintive fong recount The Thracian Bard, as Poets tell, Ev n Pluto's nicer ear: His arts, no more than Love's, we find Drew brutes in crouds to hear. Whene'er he chang'd the ftrain. When Cymon view'd the fair-one's charms, And told her beauties o'er : When love reform'd his aukward tone, The Bard now tries a fprightlier found, Perceive the varied ftrains; An equal power of Love I 've seen When Sylvia treads the smiling plain, When Handel's folemn accents roll, Each breast is fir'd, each raptur'd foul In fweet confufion loft. If the her melting glances dart, Or he his dying airs impart, Enough, enough! dear nymph, give o'er i And thou, great artist! urge no more Thus Love or found affects the mind: Fly, daring mortal, fly ! Did each alike perfection bear, But vainly might she strain her throat, Should Silvia's voice be heard.. The fragrant pillow charms : Yet foon fuch languid blifs I'd fly, Would Silvia but the lofs fupply, And take me to her arms. The alabafter's wonderous white, When Silvia is not feen: But ah! how faint that white is grown, How rough appears the polish'd ftone, Compar'd with Silvia's mien ! The rofe, that o'er the Cyprian plains, ODE TO CYNTHIA. N° On the approach of SPRING. OW in the cowlip's dewy cell The fairies make their bed, They hover round the crystal well, The turf in circles tread. The lovely linnet now her fong Tunes fweeteft in the wood; The morning breeze wafts Flora's kiss The happy fhepherd feels the blifs, But not the linnet's sweetest fong Or twittering swallow that along Skims fwiftly, harbinger of fpring, For For death-what do I fay? Yes, death If cruel Cynthia flights my faith, No more with feftive garlands bound, No more my feet fhall prefs the ground That rankles in my mind. If fleep perhaps my eye-lids clofe, I think I prefs with kiffes pure, And you're my bride. I think I'm fure, While I am left alone. Take pity then, O gentleft maid! JEMMY DAWSON, But curfe on party's hateful ftrife, O had he never feen that day! Which gives the brave the keeneit wound. How pale was then his true-love's cheek, When Jemmy's fentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine fnows so pale, or yet fo chill appear. And bring relief to Jemmy's woes ; Should learn to lip the giver's name. But though he should be dragg'd in fcorn To yonder ignominious tree; He fhall not want one conftant friend 1 O then her mourning coach was call'd, Which he had fondly lov'd fo long; Which in her praife had fweetly fung. And fever'd was that beauteous neck, A Ballad, written about the time of his And mangled was that beauteous breast, Execution, in the year 1745. Nor will you, fcorn to heave a figh, Nor necd you blush to fhed a tear. And thou, dear K tty, peerlefs maid, Do thou a penfive ear incline; For thou canft weep at every woe; And pity every plaint-but mine. Young Dawfon was a gallant boy, A brighter never trod the plain; And well he lov'd one charming maid, And dearly was he lov'd again. Que tender maid, the lov'd him dear Of gentle blood the demfel came; And faultlefs was her beauteous form, And fpotlefs was her virgin fame. On which her love-fick head repos'd: And ravish'd was that conftant heart, She did to every heart prefer ; For though it could its King forget, 'Twas true and loyal ftill to her. Amid thefe unrelenting flames, She bore this conftant heart to fee; But when 'twas moulder'd into duft, Yet, yet, fhe cry'd, I follow thee. My death, my death alone can fhew The pure, the lafting love 1 bore; Accept, O heaven! of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more. The dismal scene was o'er and past, The lover's mournful hear fe retir'd; The maid drew back her languid head, And, fighing forth his name, expir'd. Though Though juftice ever muft prevail, The tear my Kitty fheds is due : For feldom fhall the hear a tale So fad, so tender, yet so true. M II. HOPE. Y banks they are furnish'd with bees. Whofe murmur invites one to fleep; My grottos are fhaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep. I feldom have met with a lofs, Such health do my fountains beflow; A Paftoral BALLAD, in Four Parts. My fountains all border'd with moss, 1743. "Arbufta humilefque myrice." VIRS. E I. ABSENCE. Y flocks never i Whole flocks never carelessly roam; Should Corydon's happen to ftray, Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to mufe and to figh, Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was fo watchful I; I have left my dear Phillis behind. Now I know what it is, to have strove With the torture of doubt and defire; What it is to admire and to love, And to leave her we love and admire. Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn, -I have bade my dear Phillis farewel. I never once dreamt of my vine: Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; And I grieve that I priz'd' them no more. But why do I languish in vain'; Why wander thus penfively here? The pride of the valley, is flown I could wander with pleafure, alone. When forc'd the fair nymph to forego, What anguish I felt at my heart! Yet I thought-but it might not be fo'Twas with pain that fhe faw me depart. She gaz'd, as I flowly withdrew; M, path I could hardly discern; So fweetly fhe bid me adieu, I thought that fhe bade me return. The Pilgrim that journeys all day To vifit fome far-diftant fhrine, If he bear but a relique away, Is happy, nor heard to repine. Thus widely remov'd'from the fair, Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, Soft hope is the relique 1 bear, And my folace wherever I go. Where the hare-bells and violets grow. Not a pine in my grove is there feen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a fweet-briar entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fifhes of gold.. One would think the might like to retire To the bower I have labour'd to rear; Not a fhrub that I heard her admire, But hafted and planted it there. O how fudden the jeffamine ftrove With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love, To prune the wild branches away. I From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, As he may not be fond to refign. I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear, She will fay 'twas a barbarous deed. I have heard her with fweetnefs unfold And he call'd it the fifter of love. Unmov'd, when her Corydon fighs! Soft fcenes of contentment and eafe! And where are her grots and her bowers? The The groves may perhaps be as fair, And the face of the valleys as fine; The fwains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine. The language that flows from the heart, III. SOLICITUDE. WHE HY will you my paffion reprove? Come and join in my amorous lays; That will fing but a fong in her praise. -But I cannot allow her to smile. And his crook is beftudded around; 'Tis his in fmooth tales to unfold, Repine at her triumphs, and die." More fweet than the jeffamine's flower! And the wood-bines give up their perfume," Thus glide the foft numbers along, And he fancies no fhepherd his peer; IV. DISAPPOINTMENT. Y E fhepherds, give ear to my lay, And take no more heed of my sheep: They have nothing to do but to ftray; I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove; She was fair-and my paffion begun ; It banishes wisdom the while; Ye that witnefs the woes I endure; What it cannot inftruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain A mid nymphs of an higher degree; How fair, and how fickle, they be. The glance that undid my repose. The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me. The fweets of a dew-fprinkled rofe, The found of a murmuring ftream, The peace which from folitude flows, Henceforth fhall be Corydon's theme. High tranfports are fhewn to the fight; But we are not to find them our own; Fate never beftow'd fuch delight, As I with my Phyllis had known, O ye woods, fpread your branches apace; I would hide with the beafts of the chafe; LEVITIES |