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day !

Say Dartmouth, who your banks admir'd, And see, the swallows now disown
Again beneath your caves retir'd,

The roofs they lov'd before;
Shall grace the pensive shade ;

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
Ye sailors, though his name be dear,

To drown the Muse's reed.
Think him not yours alone :
Grant him in other spheres to charm,

Ye fiélds with blighted herbage brown,
The shepherds' breasts though mild are warm,

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.
Lyttleton ! my honour'd guest,
Could I describe thy generous breast

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;
Not all the vineyard's rich supplies

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,
How bright was every flower!

In yon fequefter'd grove,
While friends arriv'd, in circles gay,

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,
To weep the parting year!

I'll teach mine eyes to flow.
O pensive Autumn ! how I grieve
Thy sorrowing face to see!

There leaves, in spite of Autumn green,
When languid suns are taking leave

Shall shade the hallow'd ground; Of every drooping tree.

And Spring will there again be seen,

To call forth flowers around.
Ah let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey !

But now kind suns will bid me share,
Haste, Winter, haste; usurp the sky;

Once more, his social hour ; Complete my bower's decay.

Ah Spring! thou never canst repair

This loss, to Damon's bower.
Ill can I bear the motley cast

Yon sickning leaves retain ;
That speak at once of pleasures paft,

And bode approaching pain.
At home unblest, I gaze around,

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

Written at Oxford, when young.
Though Thompson, sweet descriptive bard!
Inspiring Autumn sung;

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.



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The Thracian Bard, as Poets tell,
Could mitigate the Powers of hell ;

Es n Pluto's nicer ear :
His arts, no more than Love's, we find
To deities or men confin'd,

Drew brutes in crouds to hear.
Whatever favourite paflion reign's,
The Post fill his right maintain'd

O'er all that rangd the plain :
The fiercer tyrants could assuage,
Or fir- the timorous into rage,

Whene'er he chang d the strain.
In milder lays the Bard began ?
Soft notes through every finger ran,

And echoing charmi'd the place :
See ! fawning lions gaze around,
And taught to quit their savage found,

Assume a gentler grace.
When Cymon view's the fair-one's charms,
Her ruby lips, and snowy arms,

And told her beauties o'er :
When love reform'd his aukward cone,
And made each clownish gesture known,

It shew'd but equal power.
The Bard now tries a sprightlier sound,
When all the feacher'd race around

Perceive the varied strains ;
The soaring lark the note pursues ;
The timcrous dove around him cooes,

And Phi omel complains.
An equal power of Love I 've seen
Incite the deer to fcour the green,

And chase his barking foe.
Sometimes has Love, with greater might,
To challen e-nay-sometimes—to fight

Provok'd th' enamour'd beau.
When Sylvia treads the smiling plain,
How glows the heart of every swain,

By pleasing tumults tost !
When Handel's folemn accents roll,
Each breast is fir’d, each saptur'd soul

In sweet confusion lost.
If the her melting glances dart,
Or he his dying airs impart,

Our spirits sink away.
Enough, enough ! dear nymph, give o'er i
And thou, great artist ! urge no more

Thy unrelisted sway.
Thus Love or sound affects the mind :
But when their various powers are join'da

Fly, daring mortal, fly!
For when Selinda's charms appear,
And I her tupeful accenca hear-

I burn, I faini, 1 dic !

Did each alike perfection bear,
What beauty, though divinely fair,

Could admiration raisc ?
Amidst the lucid bands of night,
See! Hesperus, serenely bright,

Adorns the diftant skies :
But languishes amidft the blaze
Of sprightly Sol's meridian rays,

Or Silvia's brighter eyes.
Whene'er the nightingale complains,
I like the melancholy strains,

And prai'e the tuneful bird :
But vainly mighe the strain her throat,
Vainly exalt each swelling note,

Should Silvia's voice be heard..
When, on the violet's purple bed,
Supine I reft my weary head,

The fragrant pillow charms :
Yet soon fuch languid bliss I'd fly,
Wouid Silvia but the loss supply,

And take me to her arms.
The alabaer's wonderous white,
The marble's polish strikes my light,

When Silvia is not feen :
But ah! how faint that white is grown,
How rough appears the polish'd hone,

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.


On the approach of SPRING.

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O.W in the cowslip's dewy cell

'The fairies make their bed, They hover round the crystal well,

The turf in circles tread.
The lovely lindet now her fong

Tunes sweetest in the wood;
The twittering swallow skims along

The azure liquid flond.
The morning breeze wafts Flora's kiss

la fragrance to the sense;
The happy shepherd feels the bliss,

And the takes no offence.
But not the linnce's sweetest song

That ever fill'd the wood;
Or twittering swallow that along

The azure liquid flood
Skims swiftly, harbinger of spring,

Oi morning's sweetelt brcath,
Or Flora's kiss, 'o me can bring

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.
Distorted was that blooming face,

Which she had fondly lov’d so long;
And fified was that tuneful breath,

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,

The tear my Kitty sheds is due :
For seldom shall the hear a tale
So sad, so tender, yet so true.

Y lanks they are furnislı'd with bees.

Whose murmur invites one to sleep ;
My grottos are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep.

I seldom have met with a loss,
A Pastoral BALLAD, in Four Partsa. My fountains all border'd with moss,

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.
Not my fields in the prime of the year,

More charms than my cattle unfold;
Whose flocks never carelessly roam ;

Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
Should Corydon's happen to stray,

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!
Now I know what it is, to have strove

Already it calls for my love,
With the torture of doubt and desire;
What it is to admire and to love,

To prune the wild branches away. :
And to leave her we love and admire.

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.
May, I loofé both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.

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
Why wander thus pensively here?

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?

I have heard her with sweetness unfold
They tell me, my favourite maid,

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 !
The Pilgrim that journeys all day

Where I could have pleasingly firay'd,
To visit fome far-distant fhrine,
If he bear but a relique away,

If aught, in her absence, could please.
Is happy, nor hcard to repine.

But where does ny Phyllida stray?
Thus widely remov'a'from the fair,

And where are her grors and her bowers?
Where my vows, my devotion, Towe, Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,

And the shepherds as geotie as ours ?
And my solace wherever I go.


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.



THY will you my passion reprove ?

Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I shew you the charms of my love,

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.”
To the grove or the garden he frays,

And pillages every sweet ;
Then, fuiting the wreath to his lays

He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
“ O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair,

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.
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,

So Phyllis the trophy despise :
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,

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.
Ah! love every hope can inspire:

It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire

Seems for ever adornd with a smile.
She is faithless, and I am undone ; !

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;
Fate never bestow'd such delight,

As I with my Phyllis had known,
Oye woods, fpread your branches apace;

To your deepest recesses I fly;
I would hide with the beasts of the chase;

I would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed shall resound through the grove

With the same sad complaint it begun; How the smil-d, and I could not but love;

Was faithless, and I am undone !

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