Then, with him, o'er hills and mountains,
Free from fetters, might I rove:

Fearless tafte the crystal fountains;
Peaceful sleep beneath the grove.

Ruftics had been more forgiving;
Partial to my virgin bloom:
None had envy'd me when living;
None had triumph'd o'er my tomb.

ODE to a Young Lady,

Somewhat too follicitous about her manner of Expreffion.

By the Same.

SURVEY, my fair! that lucid stream

Adown the smiling valley stray;

Would art attempt, or fancy dream,
To regulate its winding way?

So pleas'd I view thy fhining hair
In loose difhevell'd ringlets flow:
Not all thy art, nor all thy care
Can there one fingle grace beftow.

Survey again that verdant hill,
With native plants enamell'd o'er ;
Say, can the painter's utmost skill
Inftruct one flow'r to please us more?

As vain it were, with artful dye,

To change the bloom thy cheeks disclose, And oh may Laura, ere she try,

With fresh vermilion paint the rofe.

Hark, how the wood-lark's tuneful throat
Can every study'd grace excel;

Let art constrain the rambling note,
And will fhe, Laura, please fo well?

Oh ever keep thy native ease,

By no pedantic laws confin'd!

For Laura's voice is form'd to please,
So Laura's words be not unkind.

VERSES

Written towards the clofe of the Year 1748, to WILLIAM LYTTELTON, Efq;

How

By the Same,

"OW blithely pass'd the fummer's day!
How bright was every flow'r!

While friends arriv'd, in circles gay,

To vifit Damon's bow'r,

But now, with filent step, I range

Along fome lonely shore;

And Damon's bow'r, alas the change!
Is gay with friends no more.

Away to crowds and cities borne
In queft of joy they steer;

Whilft I, alas! am left forlorn,

To weep

the parting year!

O penfive

O penfive Autumn! how I grieve
Thy forrowing face to fee!

When languid funs are taking leave
Of every drooping tree.

Ah let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey!

Hafte, Winter, hafte; ufurp the fky;
Compleat my bow'r's decay.

Ill can I bear the motley caft
Yon' fickening leaves retain;
That speak at once of pleasure paft,
And bode approaching pain.

At home unblest, I gaze around,

My diftant fcenes require;

Where all in murky vapours drown'd

Are hamlet, hill, and fpire.

Though Thomson, fweet defcriptive bard!

Infpiring Autumn fung:

Yet how fhould we the months regard,

That stopp'd his flowing tongue?

Ah luckless months, of all the rest,
To whofe hard fhare it fell!

For fure he was the gentleft breast

That ever fung. fo well,

And fee, the swallows now disown

The roofs they lov'd before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown
To glad fome happier shore.

The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
The sportsman's frantic deed;

While hounds and horns and yells unite

To drown the Mufe's reed,

Ye fields with blighted herbage brown!
Ye skies no longer blue!

Too much we feel from fortune's frown,
To bear these frowns from you.

Where is the mead's unfullied green ?

The zephyr's balmy gale?

And where fweet friendship's cordial mien,

That brighten'd every vale?

What