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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 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.'


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


By the Same.


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.



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 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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