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HE morning's fair, the lusty fun

With ruddy cheek begins to run ; And early birds, that wing the skies, Sweetly sing to see him rise.

I am resolv'd, this charming day,
In the open field to stray ;
And have no roof above my head,
But that whereon the gods do tread.
Before the yellow barn I see
A beautiful variety
Of strutting cocks, advancing stout,
And Airting empty chaff about.
Hens, ducks, and geese, and all their brood,
And turkeys gobbling for their food ;
While ruftics thrash the wealthy floor,
And tempt all to crowd the door.

What a fair face does Nature Thow?
Augusta, wipe thy dusty brow;
A landskip wide salutes my light,
Of shady vales, and mountains bright;
And azure heavens I behold,
And clouds of filver and of gold.
And now into the fields I go,
Where thousand flaming flowers glow;
And every neighbouring hedge I greet,
With honey-fuckles smelling sweet.
Now a'er the daily meads I stray,
And meet with, as I pace my way,
Sweetly shining on the eye,
A rivulet gliding smoothly by ;
Which shows with what an easy tide
The moments of the happy glide.
Here, finding pleasure after pain,
Sleeping I see a wearied swain,
While his full scrip lies open by,
That does his healthy food supply.

Happy twain, sure happier far
Than lotty kings and princes are !
Enjoy sweet Neep, which shuns the crown,
With all its easy beds of down.

The fun now shows his noon-tide blaze;
And sheds around me burning rays.
A little onward, and I go
Into the shade that groves bestow;
And on green moss I lay me down,
That o'er the root of oak has grown;
Where all is filent, but some fiood
That sweetly murmurs in the wood;
But birds that warble in the sprays,
And charın ev’n Silence with her lays.

Oh powerful Silence, how you reign
In the Poet's busy brain !
His nuinerous thoughts obey the calls
Of the tuneful water-falls,
Like inoles, whene'er the coast is clear,
They rise before thee without fear,
Ard range in parties here and there.

Some wildly to Parnassus wing,
And view the fair Caftalian spring ;
Where they behold a lonely well,
Where now no tunetul Mures dwell;

But now and then a Navith hind
Paddling the troubled pool they find.

Some trace the pleasing paths of joy,
Others the blissful scene destroy ;
In thorny tracks of sorrow stray,
And pine for Clio far away.
But stay-Methinks her lays I hear,
So smooth! so sweet! so deep! so clear!
No, 'tis not her voice I find,
'Tis but the echo stays behind.

Some meditate ambition's brow,
And the black gulph that gapes below:
Some peep in courts, and there they see
The sneaking tribe of Flattery.
But, striking to the ear and eye,
A nimble deer comes bounding by!
When ruthing from yon rustling spray,
It made them vanish all away.

I rouze me up, and on I rove.
'Tis more than time to leave the grove.
The sun declines, the evening breeze
Begins to whisper through the trees:
And, as I leave the fylvan gloom,
As to the glare of day I come,
An old man's smoky nest I see,
Leaning on an aged tree;
Whose willow walls, and furzy brow,
A little garden (way below.
Through spreading beds of blooming green,
Matted with herbage sweet, and clean,
A vein of water limps along,
And makes them ever green, and young.
Here he puffs upon his spade,
And digs up cabbage in the shade :
His tatter'd rags are fable brown,
His beard and hair are hoary grawn :
The dying sap descends apace,
And leaves a wither'd hand and face.

Up * Grongar hill I labour now,
And catch at last his bushy brow.
Oh, how fresh, how pure the air!
Let me breathe a little here.
Where am I, Nature? I descry
Thy magazine before me lie !
Temples and towns !—and towers !_and woods
And hills and vales and fields ! --and foods!
Crouding before me, edg'd around
With naked wilds, and barren ground.

See, below, the pleasant dome,
The Poet's pride, the Poet's home,
Which the sun-beams shine upon,
To the even, from the dawn.
See her woods, where Echo talks,
Her gardens trim, her terras walks,
Her wildernesses, fragrant brakes,
Her gloomy bowers, and shining lakes.
Keep, ye gods, this humble seat,
For ever pleasant, private, neat.

See yonder hill, uprising steep,
Above the river flow and deep:
It looks from hence a pyramid,
Beneath a verdant forest hid;
On whose high top there rises great,
The mighty remnant of a feat,
An old green tower, whose batter'd brow
Frowns upon the vale below.

* A hill in South Wales.

TO

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Look upon that flowery plain,

Till I found out my Clio, and ended my pain,
How the sheep surround their swain,

And made myself quiet, and happy again.
How they crowd to hear his train!
All careless with his legs across,
Leaning on a bank of muss,
He spends his empty hours at play,
Which fly as light as down away.
And there behold a bloomy mead,

Α Ν E P I S T L E
A silver stream, a willow Thade,
Beneath the shade of fisher stand,
Who, with the angle in his hand,

F A M O U S PAIN T E R.
Swings the nibbling fry to land.
In blushes the descending sun

ELIGHTFUL partner of my heart, Kisses the streams, while now they run;

Master of the loveliest art! And yonder hill remoter grows,

How sweet our senses you deceive, Or dusky clouds do interpose.

When we, a gazing throng, believe! The fields are left, the labouring hind

Here flows the Po!-The Minis there, His weary oxen does unbind;

Winding about with sedgy hair! And vocal mountains, as they low,

And there the Tyber's yellow flood, Re-echo to the vales below;

Beneath a thick and gloomy wood! The jocund shepherds piping come,

And there Darius' broken ranks And drive the herd before them home;

Upon the Grannic's bloody banks j And now begin to light their fires,

Who bravely die, or basely run Which send up smoke in curling spires !

From Philip's all-fubduing son!" While with light hearts all homeward tend,

And there the wounded Porus brought To * Abergasney I descend.

(The bravest man that ever fought!) But, Oh! how bless'd would be the day,

To Alexander's tent, who eyes Did I with Clio pace my way,

His dauntless visage, as he lies And not alone and solitary stray.

In death's most painful agonies.

To me reveal thy heavenly art,
To me thy mysteries impart.
As yet I but in verse can paint,
And to th' idea colour faint
What to the open eye you show,

Seeming Nature's living glow!
E N RU I RY,

The beauteous shapes of objects near!
Or distant ones confus'd in air !

The golden eve, thé blushing dawn,
E poor little sheep, ah! well may ye stray,

Smiling on the lovely lawn!
While sad is your shepherd, and Clio away! And pleasing views of chequer'd glades!
Tell where have you been, have you met with my And rivers winding through the Mades!
love,

And funny hills and pleasant plains !
On the mountain, or valley, or meadow, or grove? And groups of merry nymphs and swains !
Alas-aday, NoYe are stray'd, and half dead;

Or some old building, hid with grass,
Ye law not my love, or ye all had been fed.

Rearing sad its ruin'd face ; Oh, Sun, did you see her ?--ah! surely you did : Whole-columns, frizes, statues, lie, 'Mong what willows, or woodbines, or reeds, is the

The grief and wonder of the eye! hid ?

Or swift adown a mountain tall: Ye tall, whistling pines, that on yonder hill grow,

A foaming cataract's sounding fall; And o'erlook the beautiful valley below,

Whose loud roaring funs the ear Did you see her a-roving in wood or in brake ?

Of the wondering traveller! See Or bathing her fair limbs in some filent lake?

Or a calm and quiet bay, Ye mountains, that look on the vigorous east,

And a level shining sea! And the north, and the south, and the wearisom

Or surges rough, that froth, and roar, west,

And, angry, dash the founding Thore ! Pray tell where she hides her, you surely do know, And vessels tost! and billows high! And let not her lover pine after her so.

And lightning flashing from the lky! Oh, had I the wings of an eagle, I'd fly

Or that which gives me most delight, Along with bright Phoebus all over the sky;

The fair idea (seeming fight!) Like an eagle, look down, with my wings wide dil- of warrior fierce, with shining blade! play'd,

Or orator, with arms display'd ! And dart in my eyes at each whispering shade :

Tully's engaging air and mien,
I'd search ev'ry tuft in my diligent tour,

Declaiming against Cataline.
I'd unravel the woodbines, and look in each bower, Or fierce Achilles towering high

Above his foes, whọ round him die, * The name of a seat belonging to the Author's

S2 brother.

Τ Η Σ

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ESQ.

ON HIS

POEM CALLED GIDEON.

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Or Hercules, with lion's hide,

In terrass'd stages mount up high, And knotty cudgel, thrown aside,

And wave its fable beauties in the sky, Lifting Antäus high in air !

From stage to stage, broad steps of half-hid Who, in his gripe, expires there! Or Sisyphus, with toil and sweat,

" With curling moss and blady grass o'ergrown, And muscles strain'd, striving to get

" Lead awful Up a steep hill a ponderous stone,

Down in a dungeon deep,
Which near the top recoils, and rolls impetuous " Where through thick walls, oblique, the broken

down.
Or beauteous Helen's early air,

“ From narrow loop-holes quivers to the sight, With head reclin'd, and flowing hair ;

« With swift and furious stride, Or comely Paris, gay and young,

“ Close-folded arms, and thort and sudden starts, Moving with gallart grace along!

“ The fretful prince, in dumb and sullen pride, These you can do! I but advance

" Revolves escape In a florid ignorance ;

Here in red colours glowing bold And say to you, who better know,

A warlike figure itrikes my eye!
You Mould design them so and so.

The dreadtul sudden sight his foes behold
Contounded so, they lose the power to fly;
Backening they gaze at distance on his face,
“ Admire his posture, and confess his grace;
“ His right hand grasps his planted spear, &c."
Alas! my Muse, through much good-will, you err :

And we the mighty author greatly wrong;
A A RONHILL,

To gather beauties here and there,

As but a scatter'd few there were,

While every word's a beauty in his song!
ELL me, wondrous friend, where were you [Those lines in this Poem marked thus «
When Gideon was your lofty fong!

taken out of the Poem called GIDEON.] Where did the heavenly spirit bear you,

When your fair soul reflected strong
Gideon's actions, as they shin'd

Bright in the chambers of your mind!
Say, hiave you trod Arabia's spicy vales,

Or gather'd bays beside Euphrates' stream, Or lonely sung with Jordan's water-falls,

While heavenly Gideon was your sacred theme.
Or have you many ages given

BY AARON HILL, ESQ.
To close retirement and to books !
And held a long discourse with Heaven,

HILE, charm'd with Aberglasney's quiet
And notic'd Nature in her various looks!

plains, Full of inípiring wonder and delight,

The Mures, and their Empress, court your strains, Slow read I Gideon with a greedy eye!

Tir'd of the roisy town, so lately try'd,
Like a pleas’d traveller that lingers sweet

Methinks, I see you smile, on Towy's fide!
On some fair and lofty plain
Where the sun does brightly fine,

Pensive, her mazy wanderings you unwind,

And, on your river's margin, calm your mind. And glorious prospects all around him lie!

Oh!-greatly bless’d--whate'er your fate requires, On Gideon's pages beautifully line,

Your ductile wisdom tempers your desires! Surprizing pictures rising to my right,

Balanc'd within, you look abroad serene, With all the life of colours and of Ile,

And, marking both extremes, pass clear between. And all the force of rounding shade and light,

Oh! could your lov'd example teach your skill, And all the grace of something more divine !

And, as it moves my wonder, mend my will!
High on a hill, beneath an oak's broad arm,

Calm would my passions grow ;-my lot would
I see a youth divinely fair,

please;
" Perfive he leans his head on his left hand;
" His smiling eye sheds sweetness mix'd with But, to the future while I strain my eye,

And my fick soul might think itself to ease !

Each present good nips, undistinguish'd, by. " His right hand, with a milk-white wand, some Still

, what I would, contends with what i can, “ figure seems to draw !

And my wild wilhes leap the bounds of man. " A nameless grace is scatter'd through his air, " And o'er his moulders loosely flows his amber and my unchain'd defires can fix a scope,

If in my power it lies to limit hope, “colour'd hair"

This were my Choice-Oh, Friend! pronounce me Alove, with burning blush the morning glows,

poor ; The waking world all fair before him lies;

For I have wants, which wealth can never cure! “ Slow from the plain the melting dews,

Let others, with a narrow'd stint of pride, " To kiss the sun-beams, climbing, rise." &c.

In selfish vicevs, a bounded hope divide :
Methinks the grove of Baal 1 see,

If I must wish at all-Desires are free,
High, as the Highest, I would wish to be!

THE

с н о г с Е.

TO MR. DYER.

W

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Then might I, sole supreme, act, unconfin’d,

But thou has nought to please the vulgar eye,
And with unbounded influence bless mankind. No title hast, nor what might titles buy.
Mean is that soul, whom its own good can fill! Thou wilt small praise, but much ill-nature find,
A prosperous world, alone, could feast my will. Clear to thy errors, to thy beauties blind;
He's poor, at best, who others misery sees,

And if, though few, they any faults can see And wants the wish'd-for power to give them ease! | How meanly bitter will cold censure be! glory this, unreach'd, but on a'throne !

But, since we all, the wiseft of us, err,
All were enough-and, less than all, is none ! Sure, 'tis the greatest fault to be severe.
This my first wish :-But since 'tis wild, and A few, however, yet expect to find,
vain,

Among the misty millions of mankind,
To grasp at glittering clouds, with fruitless pain, W1:0 proudly stoop to aid an injur'd cause,
More fafely low, let my next prospect be,

And o'er the fneer of coxcombs force applause,
And life's mild evening this fair sun-set see.

Who, with felt pleasure, see fair Virtue rise, Far from a Lord's loath'd neighbourhood - And lift her upwards to the beckoning prize! State!

Or mark her tabouring in the modest breast, Whose little greatness is a pride I hate !

And honour her the more, the more deprest. On some lone wild, should my large house be Thee, Savage, these (the justly great) admire, plac'd,

Thee, quick’ning Judgment's phlegm with Fancy's Vaftly surrounded by a healthful waste !

fire! Steril, and coarse, the untry'd foil should be, Thee, now to censure, earnest to commend, Till-forc'd to flourish, and subdu'd by me.

An able critic, but a willing friend.
Seas, woods, meads, mountains, gardens, Areams,

and skies,
Should with a changeful grandeur, charm my eyes!
Where-e'er I walk'd, effects of my past pains
Should plume the mountain tops, and paint the

plains,
Greatly obscure, and (hunning courts, or name !

E P.IS
Widely befriended, but escaping fame ;
Peaceful, in studious quiet, would I live,
Lie hid, for leisure, and grow rich, to give !

FRIEND IN TOWN*

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AVE my friends in the town, in the gay burg

town,
Forgot such a man as John Dyer ?
Or heedless despise they, or pity the clown,

V hose bosom no pageantries fire ?
No matter, no matter-content in the shades-

(Contented ?-why every thing charms me)
Fall in tunes all adown the green steep, ye cascades,

Till hence rigid virtue alarms me.
Till outrage arises, or misery needs

The swift, the intrepid avenger ;
Till sacred religion or liberty bleeds,

Then mine be the deed, and the danger.

THE LATE EARL RIVERS.

SINK

INK not, my friend, beneath misfortune's

weight,
Pleas'd to be found intrinsically great.
Shame on the dull, who think the soul looks less,
Because the body wants a glittering dress.
It is the mind's for-ever bright attire,
The mind's embroidery, that the wise admire !
That which looks rich to the gross vulgar eyes,
Is the fop's tinsel, which the grave despise.
Wealth dims the eyes of crowds, and while they

gaze,
The coxcomb's ne'er discover'd in the blaze:
As few' the vices of the wealthy see,
So virtues are conceal'd by poverty.
Earl Rivers - In that name how would'st thou

shine ?
Thy verse, how sweet! thy fancy, how divine !
Critics and Bards would, by their worth, be aw'd,
And all would think it merit to applaud.

Alas! what a folly, that wealth and domain

We heap up in fin and in sorrow!
Immense is the toil, yet the labour how vain !

Is not life to be over to-morrow ?

Then glide on my moments, the few that I have

Smooth-Maded, and quiet, and even ;
While gently the body descends to the grave,

And the spirit arises to heaven.

* Among the Poems of Mr. Savage, there is one to Mr. Dyer, in answer to his from the country.

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Nor jealousy nor female envy find,

Though all the Muses are to Dyer kind.
M R. D Y ER.

Sing on, nor let your modest fears retard,

Whose verse and pencil join, to force reward : CLIO*.

Your claim demands the bays, in double wreath,

Your Poems lighten, and your pictures breathe. "VE done thy merit and my friendship wrong,

I wish to praise you, but your beauties wrong: In holding back my gratitude so long ;

No theme looks green, in Clio's artless song: The soul is sure to equal transport rais’d,

But yours will an eternal verdure wear, That justly praises, or is justly prais'd:

For Dyer's fruitful foul will flourish there. The generous only can this pleasure know

My humbler lot was in low distance laid ; Who taste the god-like virtue—to bestow !

I was, oh, hated thought! a woman made; I ev'n grow rich, methinks, while I commend;

For houshold cares, and empty trifes meant,

The Name does immortality prevent. And feel the very praises which I send.

Yet let me stretch, beyond my sex, my mind, Among the Poems of Mr. Savage, is an And, rising, leave the futtering train behind; Epistle, occasioned by Mr. Dyer's Picture of this Nor art, nor learning, with'd assistance lends, Lady.

But nature, love, and music, are my friends:

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