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FOR THE LUTE.

GENTLY, my lute! move every string,
Soft as my sighs reveal my pain,
While I, in plaintive numbers, sing
Of slighted vows and cold disdain.
In vain her airs, in vain her art,

In vain she frowns, when I appear;
Thy notes shall melt her frozen heart;
She cannot hate, if she can hear.

And see, she smiles! through all the groves
Triumphant Iö Pæans sound:

Clap all your wings, ye little Loves!
Ye sportive Graces! dance around.
Ye listening oaks! bend to my song;
Not Orpheus play'd a nobler lay:
Ye savages! about me throng;

Ye rocks! and harder hearts! obey.

She comes, she comes, relenting fair!
To fill with joy my longing arms;
What faithful lover can despair

Who thus with verse and music charms?

HUNTING SONG.

BEHOLD, my friend! the rosy-finger'd morn
With blushes on her face,

Peeps o'er yon azure hill;
Rich gems the trees enchase,

Pearls from each bush distil;

Arise, arise, and hail the light new-born.

Hark! hark! the merry horn calls, Come
Quit, quit thy downy bed;

Break from Amynta's arms;

Oh! let it ne'er be said

That all, that all her charms,

away;

Though she's as Venus fair, can tempt thy stay.

Perplex thy soul no more with cares below;
For what will pelf avail?

Thy courser paws the ground,
Each beagle cocks his tail,

They spend their mouths around,

While health and pleasure smiles on every brow.

Try, huntsmen! all the brakes, spread all the plain; Now, now, she's gone away,

Strip, strip, with speed pursue!

The jocund god of day,

Who fain our sport would view,

See, see, he flogs his fiery steeds in vain!

Pour down, like a flood from the hills, brave boys!

On the wings of the wind

The merry beagles fly;
Dull Sorrow lags behind:
Ye shrill echoes! reply;

Catch each flying sound, and double our joys.

Ye rocks, woods, and caves! our music repeat: The bright spheres thus above,

A gay refulgent train,

Harmoniously move,

O'er yon celestial plain

Like us whirl along, in concert so sweet.

31.

Ꭰ Ꭰ

Now puss threads the brakes, and heavily flies;
At the head of the pack

Old Fidler bears the bell,
Every foil he hunts back,

And aloud rings her knell,

Till, forced into view, she pants, and she dies!

In life's dull round thus we toil and we sweat;
Diseases, grief, and pain,

An implacable crew,
While we double in vain,
Unrelenting pursue,

Till, quite hunted down, we yield with regret.

This moment is ours, come live while ye may:
What's decreed by dark Fate

Is not in our own power;
Since to-morrow's too late,

Take the present kind hour:

With wine cheer the night, as sports bless the day.

IMITATIONS.

HOR. LIB. IV. ODE IX.

INSCRIBED TO

THE RIGHT HON. JAMES STANHOPE'.

BORN near Avona's winding stream,
I touch the trembling lyre;
No vulgar thoughts, no vulgar theme,
Shall the bold Muse inspire.
'Tis immortality's her aim;

Sublime she mounts the skies,
She climbs the steep ascent to fame,
Nor ever shall want force to rise,
While she supports her flight with Stanhope's name.
What though majestic Milton stands alone,
Inimitably great!

Bow low, ye bards! at his exalted throne,
And lay your labours at his feet.
Capacious soul! whose boundless thoughts survey
Heaven, hell, earth, sea;

Lo! where the' embattled gods appear,
The mountains from their seats they tear,
And shake the' empyreal heavens with impious war.
Yet nor shall Milton's ghost repine

At all the honours we bestow
On Addison's deserving brow,

By whom convinced, we own his work divine, Whose skilful pen has done his merit right, And set the jewel in a fairer light.

1 Afterwards Earl Stanhope. See Noble Authors, vol. iv.

Enliven'd by his bright Essay,

Each flowery scene appears more gay;
New beauties spring in Eden's fertile groves,
And by his culture Paradise improves.
Garth, by Apollo doubly bless'd,
Is by the god entire possess'd:
Age, unwilling to depart,
Begs life from his prevailing skill;
Youth, reviving from his art,
Borrows its charms and power to kill:
But when the patriot's injured fame,
His country's honour or his friends,
A more extensive bounty claim,
With joy the ready Muse attends,
Immortal honours she bestows,
A gift the Muse alone can give;
She crowns the glorious victor's brows,
And bids expiring Virtue live.

Nymphs, yet unborn,shall melt with amorous flames
That Congreve's lays inspire;

And Philips warm the gentle swains
To love and soft desire.

Ah! shun, ye fair! the dangerous sounds,
Alas! each moving accent wounds,
The sparks conceal'd revive again,
The god restored resumes his reign
In killing joys and pleasing pain.
Thus does each bard in different garb appear,
Each Muse has her peculiar air,

And in propriety of dress becomes more fair:
To each impartial Providence

Well-chosen gifts bestows;

He varies his munificence,

And in divided streams the heavenly blessing flows.

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