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The Laplander, who, half the year,
in fhades of night,

Is wrapt
Mourns not, like me, his winter drear,

Nor wishes more for light.

But what were light, without my love,

Or objects e'er fo fine?

The flowery meadow, field, or grove,
If Damon be not mine?

Each moment, from my dear away,
Is a long age of pain;

Fly fwift, ye hours, be calm the day,
That brings my love again!

O hafte and bring him to my arms;
Nor let us ever part:

My breast shall beat no more alarms,
When I fecure his heart.

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Written to a near Neighbour in a tempestuous Night, 1748.

By the Same.



OU bid my Mufe not cease to fing,
You bid my ink not cease to flow;
Then say it ever shall be spring,

And boisterous winds fhall never blow:


When fuch miracles can prove,
I'll fing of friendship, or of love.
But now, alone, by storms opprest,

Which harshly in my ears refound;
No cheerful voice with witty jeft,

No jocund pipe to ftill the found;
Untrain'd befide in verfe-like art,
How fhall my pen express my heart?
In vain I call th' harmonious Nine,
In vain implore Apollo's aid;
Obdurate, they refuse a line,

While spleen and care my rest invade,

Y 4



Say, fhall we Morpheus next implore,
And try if dreams befriend us more?
Wifely at least he'll stop my pen,
And with his poppies crown my brow:
Better by far in lonesome den

To fleep unheard of- than to glow
With treach'rous wildfire of the brain,
Th' intoxicated poet's bane.



Written at a Ferme Ornee near Birmingham; August 7th, 1749.

By the Same.


IS Nature here bids pleasing scenes arise,
And wifely gives them Cynthio, to revise:
To veil each blemish; brighten every grace;
Yet still preferve the lovely Parent's face.

How well the bard obeys, each valley tells;
These lucid streams, gay meads, and lonely cells;
Where modeft Art in filence lurks conceal'd:
While Nature shines, fo gracefully reveal'd,
That the triumphant claims the total plan;
And, with fresh pride, adopts the work of man.


By Mr. JAGO.

Ingenuas didiciffe fideliter artes
Emollit mores, nec finit effe feros.


you, whofe
Who lend their artlefs notes a willing ear,
To you, whom pity moves, and taste inspires,
The Doric strain belongs; O Shenstone, hear.

groves protect the feather'd quires,

'Twas gentle spring, when all the tuneful race,

By nature taught, in nuptial leagues combine: A goldfinch joy'd to meet the warm embrace,

And hearts and fortunes with her mate to join.

Through Nature's spacious walks at large they rang'd,
No fettled haunts, no fix'd abode their aim;
As chance or fancy led, their path they chang'd,
Themselves, in every vary'd scene, the fame.

'Till on a day to weighty cares refign'd,
With mutual choice, alternate, they agreed,
On rambling thoughts no more to turn their mind,
But fettle foberly, and raise a breed.


All in a garden, on a currant-bush,

With wond'rous art they built their waving feat:

In the next orchat liv'd a friendly thrush,
Nor diftant far, a woodlark's soft retreat.

Here bleft with ease, and in each other bleft,

With early fongs they wak'd the fprightly groves, 'Till time matur'd their blifs, and crown'd their nest With infant pledges of their faithful loves.

And now what transport glow'd in either's eye!
What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food!
What joy each other's likeness to defcry,

And future fonnets in the chirping brood!

But ah! what earthly happiness can laft?

How does the fairest purpose often fail? A truant-school-boy's wantonnefs could blast Their rifing hopes, and leave them both to wail.

The most ungentle of his tribe was he;
No gen'rous precept ever touch'd his heart :
With concords falfe, and hideous profody

He fcrawl'd his tafk, and blunder'd o'er his



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