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Say Dartmouth, who your banks admir'd, And see, the swallows now disown
The roofs they lov'd before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown With all the bloom, with all the truth,
To glad some hapz ier shore, With all the sprightliness of youth,
The wood-nymhp eyes, with pale affright, By cool reflection (way'd ?
The sportsman's frantic deed; Brave. yet humane, shall Smith appear,
While hounds and horns and yells unite
To drown the Muse's reed.
Ye fiélds with blighted herbage brown,
Ye skies no longer blue ! And ours are all his own.
Too much we feel from fortune's frown,
To bear these frowns from you.
Where is the mead's unsullied green? 7 hy firm, yet polith'd mind;
The zephyr's balmy gale? How public love adorns thy name,
And where sweet friendship's cordial mien, How fortune too conspires with fame;
That brighten'd every vale ? The song should please mankind.
What though the vine disclose her dyes,
And boast her purple store;
Can soothe our sorrows more.
He! he is gone, whose moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine; Written towards the close of the year | He! he is gone, whose social vein
1748, to William Lyttleton, Esq. Surpass'd the power of wine.
Fast by the streams he deign’d to praisc,
In yon fequefter'd grove,
To him a votive urn I raise; To visit Damon's bower!
To him, and friendly love. But now, with silent step, I range
Yes, there, my friend! forlorn and sad, Along some lonely shore ;
I grave your Thomson's name And Damon's bower, alas the change!
And there, his lyre; which fate forbad Is gay with friends no more.
To found your growing fame. Away to crowds and cities borne
There shall my plaintive song recount In quest of joy they steer ;
Dark themes of hopeless woe? Whilft I, alas! am left forlorn,
And faster than the drooping fount,
I'll teach mine eyes to flow.
There leaves, in spite of Autumn green,
Shall shade the hallow'd ground; Of every drooping tree.
And Spring will there again be seen,
To call forth flowers around.
But now kind suns will bid me share,
Once more, his social hour ; Complete my bower's decay.
Ah Spring! thou never canst repair
This loss, to Damon's bower.
Yon sickning leaves retain ;
And bode approaching pain.
LOVE AND MUSIC,
Written at Oxford, when young.
HALL Love alone for ever claim Yet how mould we the months regard,
An universal right to fame, That stopp'd his flowing tongue?
An undisputed sway! Ah luckless months, of all the reft,
Or has not music equal charms To whose hard fhare it fell !
To fill the breast with strange alarms, For sure he was the gentlest brcal
And make the world obey? That ever sang fo well.
The Thracian Bard, as Poets tell,
Es n Pluto's nicer ear :
Drew brutes in crouds to hear.
O'er all that rangd the plain :
Whene'er he chang d the strain.
And echoing charmi'd the place :
Assume a gentler grace.
And told her beauties o'er :
It shew'd but equal power.
Perceive the varied strains ;
And Phi omel complains.
And chase his barking foe.
Provok'd th' enamour'd beau.
By pleasing tumults tost !
In sweet confusion lost.
Our spirits sink away.
Thy unrelisted sway.
Fly, daring mortal, fly!
I burn, I faini, 1 dic !
Did each alike perfection bear,
Could admiration raisc ?
Adorns the diftant skies :
Or Silvia's brighter eyes.
And prai'e the tuneful bird :
Should Silvia's voice be heard..
The fragrant pillow charms :
And take me to her arms.
When Silvia is not feen :
Compar'd with Silvia's mien ! The rose, that'o'er the Cyprian plains, With flowers enameld, blooming reigns,
With undilputed power, Plac'd near her cheeks celestial red, (its purple loft, its lustre flod,)
Delights the sense no març.
ODE TO CYNTHI A.
On the approach of SPRING.
O.W in the cowslip's dewy cell
'The fairies make their bed, They hover round the crystal well,
The turf in circles tread.
Tunes sweetest in the wood;
The azure liquid flond.
la fragrance to the sense;
And the takes no offence.
That ever fill'd the wood;
The azure liquid flood
Oi morning's sweetelt brcath,
A remedy for death,
'T'S by comparison we know
les proper faare of praise :
For death-what do I say? Yes, death
But curse on party's hateful ftrife, Must surely end my daya,
'I hat led the favour'd youth astray; lf cruel Cynthia flights my faith,
The day the rebel clans appear'd, And will not hear my lays.
O had he never seen that day! No more with festive garlands bound,
Their colours and their fash he wore, I at the wake shall be;
And in the fatal dress was found; No more my feet fall press the ground
And now he must that death endure, In dance with wonted glee;
vi hich gives the brave the keeneit wound. No more my little flock I'll keep,
How pale was then his true-love's cheek, To some dark cave l'll fly;
When Jimmy's sentence reachid her ear! I've nothing now to do but weep,
For never yet did Alpine (nows To mourn my fate, and figh.
do pale, or yet so chill appear. Ah! Cynthia,, thy Damon's cries
With faultering voice, she weeping said, Are heard at dead of night;
Oh Diwson, monarch of my heart; But they, alạs! are doom'd to rise
Think not thy death shall end our loves, Like smoak upon the fight.
For thou and I will never part. They rise in vain, ah me! in vain
Yet might sweet mercy find a place, Are scatter'd in the wind;
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes Cynthia does not know the pain
O George, without a prayer for thee, That rankles in my mind.
My orizons should never close. If sleep perhaps my eye-lids close,
I he gracious prince that gave him life, 'Tis but to dream of you;
Would crown a never-dying flame ; A while I cease to feel my woes,
And every tender babe I bore Nay; think I'm happy too.
Should learn to lisp the giver's name. I think I press with kisses pure,
But though he should be draggʻd in scorn Your lovely rosy lips,
To yonder ignominious tree; And you're my bride. I think I'm furt,
He shall not want one constant friend Till gold the mountain tips.
To share the cruel sates' decree. When wak'd, aghast I look around,
O then her mourning coach was callid, And find my, charmer fown;
The fledge mov'd flowly on before, Then bleeds afreth iny galling wound,
Though borne iņ a triumphal car, While I am left alone.
She had not lov'u her favourite more. Take pity then, O gentlest maid !
She follow'd him, prepard to view On thy poor Damon's heart:
The terrible behests of law; Remember what I've often said,
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes, 'Tis you can cure my snart.
With calm and ttedfaft eye she saw.
Which she had fondly lov’d so long;
Which in her praise had sweetly sung.
And sever'd was that beauteous neck,
Round which her arnis had fondly clos'd; A Ballad, written about the time of his And mangled was that beauteous breast, Execution, in the year 745.
On which hier love-lick head repos'd :
And ravish'd was that constant heart, TOME listen to my mournful tale,
She did to every heart preser ;
; For though it could its King forget, Nor will you scorn to heave a ligh,
'I'was true and loyal still to her. Nor necd you blush to shed a tear.
Amid these unrelenting flames, And thou, dear K tty, peerless maid,
She bore this constant heart to fee; Do thou a pensive ear incline;
But when 'twas moulder'd into dust, For thou canst weep at every woe;
Tet, yet, she cry'd, I follow thee, And pity every plaint-but mine.
My death, my death alone can shew Young Dawson was a gallant boy,
The pure, the lasting love I bore ; A brighter never trod the plain ;
Accept, o heaven! of woes like ours, And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And let us, let us weep no more. And dearly was he lov'd again.
The dismal scene was o'er and past, One tender maid, the loy'd him dear
The lover's mournful hear se retir'd; Of gentle blond the damsel came;
The maid drew back her languid head, And faultless was her beauteous form,
And, ligking forth his name, expir'd. And Ipotless was her virgin fanie,
Though justice ever must prevail,
Y lanks they are furnislı'd with bees.
Whose murmur invites one to sleep ;
And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains below;
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen, * Arbufa humilesque myricæ." VIRS.
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a sweet-briar entwines it around.
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold. Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
One would think she might like to retire Allow me to muse and to figh,
To the bower I have labour'd to rear ; Nor talk of the change that ye find;
Not a fhrub that I heard her admire, None once was so watchful I;
But Thafted and planted it there. I have left my dear Phillis behind.
o how sudden the jossamine strove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,
To prune the wild branches away. :
From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn,
What strains of wild melody flow! And the damps of each evening repel;
How the nightingales warble their loves Alas! I am faint and forlorn :
Fro thickets of roses that blow ! -I have bade my dear Phillis farewel.
And when her bright furm shail appear, Since Phillis vouchsaf'd me a look,
Each biru shall harmoniously join
în a concert so soft and so clear, I never once dreamt of my vine :
As—she may not be fond to resign.
I have found out a gift for
fair ; I priz'd every hour that went by,
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed : Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But let 'me that plunder forbear, But now they are past, and I figh;
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. And I grieve that I priz’d theni no more. For he ne'er could be true, se aver'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young ; But why do I languish in vain";
And I lov'd her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that pity was due to--a dove : The pride of the valley, is flown
That it ever attended the bold; Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
And she cali'd it the filter of love. I could wander with pleasure, alone.
But her words such a pleasure convey, When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
So much I her accents adore, What anguish 1 felt at my heart!
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more. Yet I thought-but it might not be so-o!
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. Can a borom so gentle remain She gaz’d, as I slowly withdrew ;
Unmoy'd, when her Corydon sighs ! M, path I could hardly discern;
Willa nymph that is fond of the plain, So sweetly the bid me adieu,
These plains and this vailey despic? I thought that she bade me return.
Dear regions of filence and shade!
Soft socnes of contentment and ease !
Where I could have pleasingly firay'd,
If aught, in her absence, could please.
But where does ny Phyllida stray?
And where are her grors and her bowers?
And the shepherds as geotie as ours ?
The groves may perhaps be as fair,
And the face of the valleys as fine ; The swains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.
The language that flows from the heart,
Isa stranger to Paridel's tongue; -- Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.
Why term it a folly to grieve?
She is fairer than you can believe. With her nien she enamours the brave;
With her wit She engages the free ; With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleasing to me. O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays ; I could lay down my life for the swain,
That will ling but a song in her praise. When he sings, mạy the nymphs of the towo
Come trooping, and listen the while ; Nay on him let not Phyllida frown;
-But I cannot allow her to smile. For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find, Ohow, with one trivial glance,
Might fe ruin the peace of my mind ! In ringlets he dresses his hair,
And his crook is bestudded around; Aod his pipe-oh my Phyllis beware
Of a magic there is in the found. "Tis his with mock passion to glow,
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, " How her face is as bright as the snow,
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. How the nightingales labour the strain,
With the notes of his charmer to vie ; How they vary their accents in vain,
Repine at her triumphs, and die.”
And pillages every sweet ;
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
More sweet than the jesfamine's flower! What are pinks in a morn, to compare !
What is eglantine, after a shower ? Then the lily no longer
is white ; Then the rose is deprivid of its bloom ; Then the violets die with despight,
And the wood-bines give up their perfume,” Thus glide the soft numbers along,
And he fancies no shepherd his peer ; -Yet I never should envy the song,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.
So Phyllis the trophy despise :
So they thinc not in Phyllis's eyes.
E mepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep: They have nothing to do but to fray;
I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove;
She was fair-and my passion begun ; She (mil'd-aud I could not but love;
She is faithless--and I am undonc. Perhaps I was void of all thought :
Perhaps it was plain to foresee, That a nymph so complete would be fought
By a swain more engaging than me.
It banishes wisdom the while;
Seems for ever adornd with a smile.
Ye that witness the woes I endure; Let reasou infruct you to shun
What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of an higher degrec; It is not for me to explain
How fair, and how fickle, they bc. Alas' from the day that we met,
What ope of an end to my woes? When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain :
The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,
In time may have confort for me. The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
The sound of a murniuring ftream, The peace which from folitude flows,
Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shewn to the fight;
But we are not to find them our own;
As I with my Phyllis had known,
To your deepest recesses I fly;
I would vanish from every eye.
With the same sad complaint it begun; How the smil-d, and I could not but love;
Was faithless, and I am undone !