Ah, now no more, the fhepherd cry'd,
Muft I ambition's charms deride,
Her fubtle force difown;

No more of fawns or fairies dream,
While fancy, near each crystal stream,
Shall paint thefe forms alone.

By low-brow'd rock, or pathless mead,
I deem'd that splendour ne'er should lead
My dazzled eyes aftray;

But who alas! will dare contend,
If beauty add, or merit blend
Its more illuftrious ray?

Nor is it long-O plaintive fwain!
Since Guernsey faw without disdain,
Where, hid in woodlands green,

*

The partner of his early days,

And once the rival of his praise,

Had ftol'n through life unseen.

Scarce faded is the vernal flower,
Since Stamford left his honour'd bower

To fmile familiar here:

form'd by nature to disclose

How fair that courtesy which flows
From focial warmth fincere.

Nor yet have many moons decay'd,
Since Pollio fought this lonely shade,
Admir'd this rural maze:

*They were school-fellows.

The

The nobleft breast that virtue fires,
The Graces love, the Muse inspires,

Might pant for Pollio's praife.

Say Thomson here was known to rest,
For him yon vernal feat I dreft,

Ah, never to return!

In place of wit, and melting strains,
And focial mirth, it now remains
To weep befide his urn.

Come then, my Lælius, come once more,
And fringe the melancholy fhore

With rofes and with bays,
While I each wayward fate accufe,
That envy'd his impartial Muse
To fing your early praise.

While Philo, to whose favour'd fight,
Antiquity, with full delight,

Her inmoft wealth displays;

Beneath yon ruins moulder'd wall
Shall mufe, and with his friend recal!
The pomp of ancient days.

Here too fhall Conway's name appear,
He prais'd the stream so lovely clear,
That fhone the reeds among;

Yet clearness could it not difclofe,
To match the rhetoric that flows
From Conway's polish'd tongue.

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Ev'n Pitt, whofe fervent periods roll
Refiftlefs through the kindling foul
Of fenates, councils, kings!

Though form'd for courts, vouchfaf'd to rove
Inglorious, through the fhepherd's grove,
And ope his bashful springs.

But what can courts difcover more,
Then thefe rude haunts have feen before,
Each fount and fhady tree?

Have not these trees and fountains feen
The pride of courts, the winning mien
Of peerless Aylesbury?

And Grenville, fhe whofe radiant eyes
Have mark'd by flow gradation rife
The princely piles of Stow;

Yet prais'd these unembellish'd woods,
And smil'd to see the babbling floods
Through felf-worn mazes flow.

Say Dartmouth, who your banks admir'd,
Again beneath your caves retir'd,

Shall grace the penfive shade;
With all the bloom, with all the truth,
With all the sprightliness of youth,
By cool reflection fway'd?

Brave, yet humane, shall Smith appear,
Ye failors, though his name be dear,
Think him not yours alone :

Grant him in other spheres to charm,

The shepherds' breasts though mild are warm,
And ours are all his own.

0

O Lyttelton! my honour'd gueft,
Could I defcribe thy generous breaft,

Thy firm, yet polish'd mind;
How public love adorns thy name,
How fortune too confpires with fame;

The fong fhould please mankind.

VERSES written towards the Clofe of the Year 1748, to WILLIAM LYTTELTON, Efq;

H

OW blithely pafs'd the fummer's day!

How bright was every flower!

While friends arriv'd, in circles gay,

To vifit Damon's bower!

But now, with filent step, I

Along fome lonely fhore;

range

And Damon's bower, 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.

Ah let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying fcene furvey!

Hafte, Winter, hafte; ufurp the sky;
Compleat my bower's decay.

Ill can I bear the motley caft

Yon fickening leaves retain; That speak at once of pleasure past, And bode approaching pain.

At home unbleft, I gaze around,

My diftant scenes require;
Where all in murky vapours drown'd
Are hamlet, hill, and spire.

Though Thomson, fweet defcriptive bard!
Infpiring Autumn fung;

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

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

And fee, the fwallows 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 frantic 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.

3

Where