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Yes there, my friend! forlorn and fad,

I

grave your Thomson's name;

And there, his lyre; which fate forbad
To found your growing fame.

There fhall my plaintive fong recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe;
And, fafter than the dropping fount,
I'll teach mine eyes to flow.

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

But no kind funs will bid me fhare,
Once more, His focial hour;
Ah Spring! thou never canft repair
This lofs, to Damon's bow'r.

****

SONG S.

By the Same.

I.

'N a vale 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

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

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

With faireft ideas my bosom I ftor'd;

Allufions to none but the nymph I ador❜d:
And the more I with ftudy my fancy refin'd,
The deeper impreffion she made on my mind.

Ah! whilst I the beauties of nature pursue,
I ftill must my Daphne's fair image renew :
The Graces have chofen with Daphne to rove,
And the Muses 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 rise ;
Display at once your brighteft dyes;
That the your opening charms may fee:
Or what were all your charms to me?

Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flow'r,
And shed its odours round my bow'r :
Or never more, O gentle wind,
Shall I, from thee, refreshment find.

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 fhalt 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 blast descends from eastern skies,
And all its bufhing radiance dies.

Then guard, my fair! your charms divine;
And check the fond defire to shine
Where fame's tranfporting rays allure,
While here more happy, more fecure.

The breath of fome neglected maid
Shall make you figh you left the fhade:
A breath to beauty's bloom unkind,
As, to the rofe, an eastern wind.

The

The nymph reply'd, " You firft, my fwain,
"Confine your fonnets to the plain;
"One envious tongue alike difarms,

"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 blush, unfeen ?"

IV. Written in a Collection of Bacchanalian Songs.

A

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DIEU, ye jovial youths, who join

To plunge old Care in floods of wine;

And, as your dazled eye-balls roll,
Difcern him ftruggling in the bowl.

Nor 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 fee, thro' yonder filent grove,
See yonder does my Daphne rove:
With pride her foot-steps I pursue,
And bid your frantick joys adieu.

Y 4

The

The fole confufion I admire,
Is that my Daphne's eyes infpire:
I fcorn the madness you approve,
And value reafon next to love.

V. I mitated from the FRENCH.

'ES, these are the scenes where with Iris I ftray'd;

YE

But fhort was her fway for fo lovely a maid!
In the bloom of her youth to a cloister she run;
In the bloom of her graces, too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove
So fatal to beauty, fo killing to love!

Yes, these are the meadows, the fhrubs and the plains; Once the scene of my pleafures, the scene of my pains; How many foft moments I spent in this grove!

How fair was my nymph! and how fervent my love! Be ftill tho', my heart; thine emotion give o'er; Remember, the feafon of love is no more.

With her how I ftray'd amid fountains and bow'rs,
Or loiter'd behind and collected the flow'rs!
Then breathless with ardor my fair-one purfu'd,
And to think with what kindness my garland she view'd!
But be still, my fond heart! this emotion give o'er;
Fain wouldst thou forgot thou must love her no more.

RURAL

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