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The man too whom my foul first knew,
To virtue and to honour true;
And friendship's facred name.
O Newton, could these penfive lays
In worthy numbers fcan thy praise,
Much gratitude would say;
But that the Mufe, ingenuous maid,
Of flattery seems so much afraid,
She'll scarce her duty pay.
Brecknock, Oct. 16, 1749.
DENNIS to Mr. T HOMSON,
Who had procured him a Benefit Night.
Eflecting on thy worth, methinks I find
Thy various Seasons in their author's mind.
Spring opes her bloffoms, various as thy Mufe,
And, like thy foft compaffion, sheds her dews.
Summer's hot drought in thy expreffion glows,
And o'er each page a tawny ripeness throws.
Autumn's rich fruits th' instructed reader gains,
Who tastes the meaning purpose of thy strains.
Winter-but that no femblance takes from thee:
That hoary season yields a type of me.
Shatter'd by time's bleak storms I withering lay,
Leafless, and whitening in a cold decay!
Yet fhall my propless ivy, pale and bent,
Bless the short sunshine which thy pity lent.
HOW eafy was Colin, how blithe and how gay!
Ere he met the fair Chloris, how sprightly his lay!
So graceful her form, so accomplish'd her mind,
Sure pity, he thought, with fuch charms must be join'd!
Whenever the danc'd, or whenever the fung,
How just was her motion, how fweet was her tongue!
And when the youth told her his paffionate flame,
She allow'd him to fancy her heart felt the fame.
With ardour he prefs'd her to think him fincere,
But alas! fhe redoubled each hope and each fear;
She would not deny, nor fhe would not approve,
And fhe neither refus'd him, nor gave him her love.
Now cheer'd by complacence, now froze by difdain,
He languish'd for freedom, but languish'd in vain :
'Till Thyrfis, who pity'd so helpless a flave,
Eas'd his heart of its pain by the counfel he gave.
Forfake her, faid he, and reject her awhile;
If. fhe love you, fhe foon will return with a fmile:
You can judge of her paffion by absence alone,
And by abfence will conquer her heart or your own.
This advice he purfu'd; but the remedy prov'd
Too fatal, alas! to the fair one he lov'd;
Which cur'd his own paffion, but left her in vain
To figh for a heart she could never regain.
I. S. H.
The BUL FINCH in Town.
By a Lady of Quality.
ARK to the blackbird's pleafing note:
Sweet ufher of the vocal throng!
Nature directs his warbling throat,
And all that hear admire the fong.
Yon' bulfinch, with unvary'd tone,
Of cadence harsh, and accent fhrill, Has brighter plumage to atone
For want of harmony and skill.
Yet, discontent with nature's boon,
Like man, to mimic art he flies;
On opera-pinions hoping foon
Unrivall❜d he fhall mount the skies.
And while, to please fome courtly fair,
He one dull tune with labour learns,
A well-gilt cage, remote from air,
And faded plumes, is all he earns !
Go, hapless captive! still repeat
The founds which nature never taught; Go, listening fair! and call them sweet, Because you know them dearly bought.
Unenvy'd both! go hear and fing
Your study'd mufic o'er and o'er; Whilst I attend th' inviting spring,
In fields where birds unfetter'd foar.
HE fun, his gladsome beams withdrawn,
The hills all white with fnow,
Leave me dejected and forlorn!
Who can defcribe my woe?
But not the fun's warm beams could cheer,
Nor hills, though e'er fo green,
Unless my Damon fhould appear,
To beautify the scene.
The frozen brooks, and pathless vales,
Disjoin my love and me!
The pining bird his fate bewails
On yonder leafless tree!
But what to me are birds or brooks
Or any joy that's near?
Heavy the lute, and dull the books,
While Damon is not here!