L

What though the vine difclofe her dyes,

And boast her purple store;

Not all the vineyard's rich fupplies

Can foothe our forrows more.

He! he is gone, whose moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine;

He! he is gone, whofe focial vein
Surpafs'd the pow'r of wine.

Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise,

In yon' fequefter'd grove,

To him a votive urn I raise;

To him, and friendly love.

Yes there, my friend! forlorn and fad,
grave your Thomfon's name;

I

And there, his lyre; which fate forbad

To found your growing fame.

There shall my plaintive fong recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe;

And, fafter than the dropping fount,

I'll teach mine eyes to flow.

Ther

There leaves, in fpite of Autumn, green,
Shall fhade the hallow'd ground;
And Spring will then again be seen,
To call forth flowers around.

But no kind funs will bid me share,
Once more, His focial hour;

Ah Spring! thou never canft repair
This lofs, to Damon's bow'r.

SONG S.

By the Same.

I.

Nav
Navale fring'd with woodland, where grottos abound,

And rivulets murmur, and echoes refound,

I vow'd to the Mufes my time and my care;
Since neither could win me the fmiles of my fair.

As freedom infpir'd me, I rang'd and I sung;
And Daphne's dear name never fell from my tongue:
But if once a fmooth accent delighted my ear,

I fhould wish, unawares, that my Daphne might hear.

With faireft ideas my bofom I ftor'd;
Allufions to none but the nymph I ador❜d;
And the more I with study my fancy refin'd,
The deeper impreffion fhe made on my mind.

Ah! whilft I the beauties of nature pursue,
I still must my Daphne's fair image renew:
The Graces have chofen with Daphne to rove,
And the Mufes are all in alliance with Love.

II. DAPHNE'S Vifit.

E birds for whom I rear'd the grove,

YE

With melting lay falute my love:

My Daphne with your notes detain :
Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.

Ye flow'rs before her footsteps rife;
Display at once your brightest dyes;
That the your opening charms may fee:
Or what were all your charms to me?

Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flow'r,
And fhed its odours round my bow'r:

Or never more, O gentle wind,

Shall I, from thee, refreshment find.

Ye

Ye ftreams! if e'er your banks I lov'd,
If e'er your native founds improv'd,
May each foft murmur foothe my fair:
Or oh! 'twill deepen my despair.

And thou, my grot! whofe lonely bounds
The melancholy pine furrounds,

May Daphne praise thy peaceful gloom,
Or thou shalt prove her Damon's tomb.

III. The ROSE-BUD.

EE, Flavia, fee that budding rofe,

SEE

How bright beneath the bush it glows;

How fafely there it lurks conceal'd;
How quickly blafted, when reveal'd!

The fun with warm attractive rays
Tempts it to wanton in the blaze:
A blaft defcends from eastern skies,
And all its blushing radiance dies.

Then guard, my fair! your charms divine;
And check the fond defire to shine
Where fame's transporting rays allure,

While here more happy, more fecure.

The

The breath of fome neglected maid

Shall make you figh you left the shade :
A breath to beauty's bloom unkind,

As, to the rose, an eastern wind.

The nymph reply'd, "You firft, my fwain,
"Confine your fonnets to the plain;,
"One envious tongue alike disarms,
"You, of your wit, me, of my charms.

"What is, unheard, the tuneful thrill? "Or what, unknown, the poet's skill? "What, unadmir'd, a charming mien, "Or what the rofe's blufh, unfeen?"

IV. Written in a Collection of Bacchanalian Songs.

A

DIEU, ye jovial youths, who join

To plunge old Care in floods of wine;

And, as your dazzled eye-balls roll,
Discern him ftruggling in the bowl.

Not yet is hope fo wholly flown,
Nor yet is thought fo tedious grown,
But limpid ftream and fhady tree
Retain, as yet, fome fweets for me.

And