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V.
My books that wont to footh my mind

No longer now can please:
There only those amusement find
That have a mind at ease..

VI.
Nay life itself is'tasteless grown

From Lucy whilft I ftray :
Sick of the world I mose alone

And figh the live long day.

1748.

.

ODE to MEMORY.

1748.

By WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Efq;

I.
Memory ! celeftial maid !

Who glean' t the flow'rets cropt by time;
And, fuffering not a leaf to fade,

Preferv'st the blossoms of our prime;
Briug, bring those moments to my mind
When life was new, and Lesbia kind.

II. And

II.
And bring that garland to my fight,

With which my favour'd crook she bound;
And bring that wreath of roses bright

Which then my festive temples crown'd.
And to my raptur'd ear convey
The gentle things she deign'd to say.

III.
And sketch with care the Muse's bow'r,

Where Ifis rolls her silver tide ;
Nor yet omit one reed or flow'r

That shines on Cherwell's verdant side;
If so thou may 'ft those hours prolong, .)
When polish'd Lycon join'd my song.

IV.
The song it 'vails not to recite-

But sure, to sooth our youthful dreams,
Those banks and streams appear'd more bright

Than other banks, than other streams :
Or by thy softening pencil shewn,
Assume they beauties not their own ?

V.
And paint that sweetly vacant scene,

When, all beneath the poplar bough,
My spirits light, my soul ferene,

I breath'd in verse one cordial vow; That nothing should my soul inspire, But friendship warm, and love entire.

VI. Dull

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VI.
Doll to the sense of new delight,

On thee the drooping Muse attends ;
As some fond lover, robb’d of sight,

On thy expressive pow'r depends;
Nor would exchange thy glowing lines,
To live the lord of all that shines.

VII.
But let me chase those vows away

Which at ambition's shrine I made
Nor ever let thy skill display

Those anxious moments, ill repaid :
Oh ! from my breast that season rafe,
And bring my childhood in its place.

VIII.
Bing me the beils, the rattle bring,

And bring the hobby I beftrode;
U hen pleas'd, in many a sportive ring,

Around the room I jovial rode :
Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu,
And bring the whistle that I blew.

IX.

Then will I mufe, and pensive say,

Why did not these enjoyments laft?
How sweetly wasted I the day,

While innocence allow'd to waste?
Ambition's toils alike are vain,
But ah! for pleasure yield us pain.

The

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A Ballad alluding to a Story recorded of her, when

she was a Prisoner at Woodstock, 1554.

By the Same.

WILL you hear how once repining

Great Eliza captive lay?
Each ambitious thought resigning,

Foe to riches, pomp, and sway?

While the nymphs and fwains delighted

Tript around in all their pride ;
Envying joys by others flighted,

Thus the royal maiden cry'd.

Bred on plains, or born in vallies,

Who would bid those scenes adieu?
Stranger to the arts of malice,

Who would ever courts pursue ?

Malice never taught to treasure,

Censure never taught to bear :
Love is all the shepherd's pleasure;

Love is all the damsel's care.

How How can they of humble station

Vainly blame the pow'rs above Or accuse the dispensation

Which allows them all to love?

Love like air is widely given ;

Pow'r nor chance can these restrain ; Trueft, noblest gifts of heaven!

Only purest on the plain!

Peers can no such charms discover,

All in stars and garters dreft, As, on Sundays, does the lover

With his nosegay on his breaft.

Pinks and roses in profufion,

Said to fade when Chloe's near ; Fops may use the same allusion,

But the shepherd is fincere.

Hark to yonder milk-maid singing,

Chearly o'er the brimming pail ; Cowslips all around her springing

Sweetly paint the golden vale.

Never yet did courtly maiden

Move so sprightly, look fo fair ; Never brealt with jewels laden

Pour a song fo void of care.

Would

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