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Would indulgent heav'n had granted

Me some rural damfel's part!
All the empire I had wanted

Then had been my shepherd's heart.

Then, with him, o'er hills and mountains,

Free from fetters, might I rove:
Fearless taste the crystal fountains ;

Peaceful sleep beneath the grove.

Rusticks had been more forgiving;

Partial to my virgin bloom :
None had envy'd me when living ;

None had triumph'd o'er my tomb.

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URVEY, my fair! that lucid stream

Adown the smiling valley stray ;
Would art attempt, or fancy dream,

To regulate its winding way?

So

So pleas'd I view thy shining hair

In loose dishevel'd ringlets flow : Not all thy art, nor all thy care

Can there one single grace bestow.

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Survey again that verdant hill,

With native plants enameld o'er; Say, can the painter's utmost skill

Instruct 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 rose.'

1

Hark, how the wood-lark's tuneful throat

Can every study'd grace excel; Let art constrain the rambling note,

And will she, Laura, pleafe so well?

Oh ever keep thy native ease,

By no pedantic laws confind !
For Laura's voice is form'd to please,

So Laura's words be not unkind.

VERSES written towards the close of the Year

1748, to WILLIAM LYTTELTON, Efq;

By the Same.

HOW

OW blithely pass'd the summer's day!

How bright was every flow'r!
While friends arriv'd, in circles gay,

To visit Damon's bow'r.

But now, with filent step, I range

Along some lonely shore;
And Damon's bow'r, alas the change!

Is gay with friends no more.

Away to crowds and cities borne

In quest of joy they fteer ;
Whilft I, alas ! am left forlorn,

To weep the parting year!

O pensive Autumn! how I grieve

Thy forrowing face to fee!
When languid suns are taking leave

Of every drooping tree.
VOL. IV.

Y

Ah

Ah let me not, with heavy eye,

This dying scene survey !
Hafte, Winter, hafte; ufurp the sky;

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 unbleft, I gaze around,

My diftant fcenes require;
Where all in murky vapours drown'd

Are hamlet, hill, and spire.

Tho' Thomson, sweet descriptive bard!

Inspiring Autumn fung;
Yet how should we the months regard,

That stopp'd his flowing tongue ?

Ah luckless months, of all the rest,

To whose hard share it fell ! For sure he was the gentleft breast

That ever sung so well.

And see, the swallows now difown

The roofs they lov'd before ;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown

To glad fome happier shore.

The

The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,

The sportsman's frantick deed;
While hounds and horns and yells unite,

To drown the Muse'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 unsullied green ?

The zephyr's balmy gale?
And where sweet friendship's cordial mien,

That brighten'd every vale?

What tho' the vine disclose her dyes,

And boast her purple store ;
Not all the vineyard's rich supplies

Can soothe our sorrows more.

He ! he is gone, whose moral strain

Could wit and mirth refine;
He ! he is gone, whose social vein

Surpass’d the pow'r of wine.

Faft by the streams he deign'd to praise,

In yon' sequefter'd grove, To him a votive urn I raise;

To him, and friendly love.

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