Would indulgent heav'n had granted
Me fome rural damfel's part!
All the empire I had wanted

Then had been my fhepherd's heart.

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

Fearless taste the crystal fountains;

Peaceful fleep beneath the grove.

Rufticks 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 folicitous about her Manner

of Expreffion.

By the Same.

URVEY, my fair! that lucid ftream

SURVE

Adown the fmiling valley ftray;
Would art attempt, or fancy dream,
To regulate its winding way }

So

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

Survey again that verdant hill,

With native plants enamel'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, pleafe 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;

By the Same.

OW blithely pafs'd the fummer's day!

HO

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 fhore;

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 fteer;
Whilft I, alas! am left forlorn,
To weep the parting year!

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

When languid funs 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 defcriptive bard!
Infpiring Autumn fung;

Yet how should we the months regard,
That stopp'd his flowing tongue?

Ah luckless months, of all the reft,
To whofe hard fhare it fell!
For fure he was the gentleft breast
That ever fung fo well.

And fee, the swallows now difown

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

To glad fome happier fhore.

The

The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
The sportsman's frantick 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 sweet friendship's cordial mien,

That brighten'd every vale?

What tho' the vine difclofe her dyes,

And boaft her purple ftore;

Not all the vineyard's rich supplies
Can foothe our forrows 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 ftreams he deign'd to praise,

In yon' fequefter'd grove,

To him a votive urn I raise;
To him, and friendly love.