WHEN late the trees were stript by Winter pale,
Fair HEALTH, a Dryad-maid in vesture green,
Rejoyc'd to rove 'mid the bleak fylvan scene,
On airy uplands caught the fragrant gale,
And ere fresh morn the low-couch'd lark did hail
Watching the found of earliest horn was seen.
But fince gay Summer, thron'd in chariot sheen,
Is come to fcorch each primrose sprinkled dale,
She chooses that delightful cave beneath
The cryftal treasures of meek Ifis' stream;
And now all glad the temperate air to breathe,
While cooling drops diftil from arches dim,
Binding her dewy locks with fedgy wreath
She fits amid the quire of Naiads trim,
To Lady Hy. By Mr. de VOLTAIRE.
--Y would you know the paffion
You have kindled in my breast,
Trifling is the inclination
That by words can be express'd.
In my filence fee the lover,
True love is by filence known;
In my eyes you'll beft discover
On Sir ROBERT WALPOLE's Birth-day,
By the Honourable Mr. D— -TON.
LL hail, aufpicious day, whose wish'd return
Bids every breast with grateful ardor burn,
While pleas'd Britannia that great man furveys
The Prince may truft, and yet the People praise:
One bearing greatest toils with greatest ease,
One born to serve us, and yet born to please;
His foul capacious, yet his judgment clear,
His tongue is flowing, and his heart fincere:
His counfels guide, his temper cheers our ifle,
And smiling gives three kingdoms cause to smile.
Auguft, how bright thy golden fcenes appear,
Thou fairest daughter of the various year,
On thee the fun with all his ardor glows,
On thee in dowry all its fruits bestows,
The greatest Prince, the foremost son of fame,
To thee bequeath'd the glories of his name;
Nature and Fortune thee their darling chofe,
Nor could they grace thee more, 'till Walpole rofe.
By steps to mighty things Fate makes her way,
The fun and Cæfar but prepar'd this day,
Written in the Year 1744.
AS, by fome tyrant's ftern command,
A wretch forfakes his native land,
In foreign climes condemn'd to roam
An endless exile from his home;
Penfive he treads the deftin'd way,
And dreads to go, nor dares to stay;
'Till on fome neighb'ring mountain's brow
He stops, and turns his eyes below;
There, melting at the well-known view,
Drops a laft tear, and bids adieu :
So I, thus doom'd from thee to part,
Gay queen of Fancy and of Art,
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind,
Oft stop, and often look behind.
Companion of my tender age,
Serenely gay, and sweetly fage,
How blithsome were we wont to rove
By verdant hill, or shady grove,
Where fervent bees, with humming voice,
Around the honey'd oak rejoice,
And aged elms with aweful bend
In long cathedral walks extend!
Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods,
Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods,
How bleft my days, my thoughts how free,
In sweet society with thee!
Then all was joyous, all was young,
And years unheeded roll'd along:
But now the pleasing dream is o'er,
These scenes must charm me now no more,
Loft to the field, and torn from
Farewel! a long, a last adieu.
Me wrangling courts, and stubborn Law, To fmoak, and crowds, and cities draw ; There selfish Faction rules the day,
And Pride and Av'rice throng the way:
Diseases taint the murky air,
And midnight conflagrations glare;
Loose Revelry and Riot bold
In frighted streets their orgies hold;
Or, when in filence all is drown'd,
Fell Murder walks her lonely round:
No room for peace, no room for you,
Adieu, celestial Nymph, adieu!
Shakespear no more, thy fylvan fon,
Nor all the art of Addison,
Pope's heav'n-ftrung lyre, nor Waller's ease, Nor Milton's mighty felf must please : Instead of these, a formal band
In furs and coifs around me stand;
With founds uncouth and accents dry
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