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النشر الإلكتروني

EPISTLE TO MRS. MARTHA BLOUNT,

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

O be thou blessed with all that heaven can send,
Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend:
Not with those toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.
With added years if life bring nothing new,
But like a sieve let every blessing through,
Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain some sad reflection more;
Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear
'Tis but the funeral of the former year.

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm every thought, inspirit every grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear:
Till death, unfelt, that tender frame destroy,
In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy,
Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.

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THE Phœbe of Byrom's pastoral was Miss Joanna Bentley, daughter of Dr. Richard Bentley, the celebrated master of Trinity College, of which Byrom was a student. He is said to have written the poem, not so much for love of the lady, as from a desire to attract the notice of her father. It was first published in "THE SPECTATOR," for October 6th, 1714. Miss Bentley afterwards married Dr. Dennison Cumberland, Bishop of Clonfert, in Ireland: Cumberland, the dramatist, was her son. Byrom married his cousin, Elizabeth, against the wishes of her father, a rich mercer of Manchester, who refused to do anything for the young couple. They were reduced to sad straits, and Byrom was forced for a time to teach short-hand writing for a living.

A PASTORAL.

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,
When Phoebe went with me wherever I went,
Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast;
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find!
When things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 't was the Spring; but, alas! it was she.

With such a companion, to tend a few sheep,
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep,
I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay,
My heart was as light as a feather all day:

But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown,

So strangely uneasy, as never was known.

My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned,
And my heart-I am sure it weighs more than a pound!

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along,
And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among;
Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there,
'Twas pleasure to look at, 't was music to hear:
But now she is absent, I walk by its side,
And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide;
Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain?

Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they;

How pleasant their sporting, how happy the time,

When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their prime! But now, in their frolics, when by me they pass,

I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass;

Be still then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To see you so merry while I am so sad.

My dog I was ever well pleased to see
Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me;
And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said,
Come hither, poor fellow; and patted his head.
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look
Cry Sirrah! and give him a blow with my crook ;
And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray
Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away?

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen!
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green!
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade,
The cornfields and hedges, and everything made!
But now she has left me, though all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear:

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