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

Shall grace the pensive shade;
With all the bloom, with all the truth,
With all the fprightliness of youth,

By cool reflection fway'd?

Brave, yet humane, fhall Smith appear,
Ye failors, though his name be dear,
Think him not yours alone :
Grant him in other spheres to charm,
The shepherds' breafts though mild are warm,
And ours are all his own.

O Lyttleton! my honour'd gueft,
Could I defcribe thy generous breast'
7 hy 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 Lyttleton, 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 range
Along fome lonely shore;
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 scene survey!
Hafte, Winter, hafte; ufurp the sky;
Complete my bower's decay.

Ill can I bear the motley caft

Yon fickning leaves retain ;

That speak at once of pleasures 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 Thompson, fweet defcriptive bard!
Inspiring Autumn fung;

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

Ah lucklefs months, of all the reft,

To whofe hard fhare it fell!

For fure he was the gentleft breaft

That ever fang fo well.

And fee, the fwallows new difown

The roofs they lov'd before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown
To glad fome happier fhore,

The wood-nymhp 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 fkies 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 though the vine disclose her dyes,
And boast her purple store;
Not all the vineyard's rich fupplies

Can foothe our forrows more.

He! he is gone, whofe moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine;
He! he is gone, whofe focial vein
Surpafs'd the power of wine.

Faft by the streams he deign'd to praise,
In yon fequefter'd grove,
To him a votive urn I raise;

To him, and friendly love.

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 faster than the drooping fount,
I'll teach mine eyes to flow.

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

Ev 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 paffion reign'd,
The Post fill his right maintain d
O'er ali that rang'd the plain:
The fiercer tyrants could affuage,
Or fire the timorous into rage,

Whene'er he chang'd the ftrain.
In milder lays the Bard began?
Soft notes through every finger ran,
And echoing charm'd the place:
See fawning lions gaze around,
And taught to quit their favage found,
Affume a gentler grace.

When Cymon view'd the fair-one's charms,
Her ruby lips, and fnowy arms,

And told her beauties o'er :

When love reform'd his aukward tone,
And made each clownish gefture known,
It fhew'd but equal power.

The Bard now tries a fprightlier found,
When all the feather'd race around

Perceive the varied ftrains;
The foaring lark the note pursues;
The timorous dove around him cooes,
And Philomel complains.

An equal power of Love I 've seen
Incite the deer to fcour the green,
And chafe his barking foe.
Sometimes has Love, with greater might,
To challenge-nay-fometimes-to fight
Provok'd th' enamour'd beau.

When Sylvia treads the smiling plain,
How glows the heart of every swain,
By pleafing tumults tost!

When Handel's folemn accents roll,

Each breast is fir'd, each raptur'd foul

In fweet confufion loft.

If the her melting glances dart,

Or he his dying airs impart,
Our fpirits fink away.

Enough, enough! dear nymph, give o'er i

And thou, great artist! urge no more
Thy unrefifted fway.

Thus Love or found affects the mind:
But when their various powers are join'd

Fly, daring mortal, fly !
For when Selinda's charms appear,
And I her tuneful accents hear-
I burn, I faine, I die!

Did each alike perfection bear,
What beauty, though divinely fair,
Could admiration raise ?
Amidft the lucid bands of night,
See! Helperus, ferenely bright,
Adorns the distant skies:
But languishes amidst the blaze
Of fprightly Sol's meridian rays,—
Or Silvia's brighter eyes.
Whene'er the nightingale complains,
I like the melancholy ftrains,
And prai'e the tuneful bird:

But vainly might she strain her throat,
Vainly exalt each fwelling 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 foon fuch languid blifs I'd fly, Would Silvia but the lofs fupply,

And take me to her arms.

The alabafter's wonderous white,
The marble's polish strikes my fight,

When Silvia is not feen:

But ah! how faint that white is grown, How rough appears the polish'd ftone,

Compar'd with Silvia's mien !

The rofe, that o'er the Cyprian plains,
With flowers enamel'd, blooming reigns,
With undifputed power,
Plac'd near her cheeks celeftial red,
(Its purple loft, its luftre fled,)
Delights the fense no more.

ODE TO CYNTHIA.

N°

On the approach of SPRING.

OW in the cowlip's dewy cell The fairies make their bed, They hover round the crystal well, The turf in circles tread.

The lovely linnet now her fong

Tunes fweeteft in the wood;
The twittering swallow fkims along
The azure liquid flood.

The morning breeze wafts Flora's kiss
In fragrance to the fense;

The happy fhepherd feels the blifs,
And the takes no offence.

But not the linnet's sweetest fong
That ever fill'd the wood;

Or twittering swallow that along
The azure liquid flood

Skims fwiftly, harbinger of fpring,
Or morning's fweetelt breath,
Or Flora's kifs, to me can bring
A remedy for death.

For death-what do I fay? Yes, death
Muft furely end my days,

If cruel Cynthia flights my faith,
And will not hear my lays.

No more with feftive garlands bound,
I at the wake fhall be;

No more my feet fhall prefs the ground
In dance with wonted glee;
No more my little flock I'll keep,
To fome dark cave I'll fly;
I've nothing now to do but weep,
To mourn my fate, and figh.
Ah! Cynthia, thy Damon's cries
Are heard at dead of night;
But they, àlas! are doom'd to rife
Like fmoak upon the fight.
They rife in vain, ah me! in vain.
Are fcatter'd in the wind;
Cynthia does not know the pain.

That rankles in my mind.

If fleep perhaps my eye-lids clofe,
'Tis but to dream of you;
A while I ceafe to feel my woes,
Nay, think I'm happy too.

I think I prefs with kiffes pure,
Your lovely rofy lips,

And you're my bride. I think I'm fure,
Till gold the mountain tips.
When wak'd, aghaft I look around,
And find my charmer flown;
Then bleeds afresh my galling wound,

While I am left alone.

Take pity then, O gentleft maid!
On thy poor Damon's heart:
Remember what I've often faid,
'Tis you can cure my fart.

JEMMY DAWSON,

But curfe on party's hateful ftrife,
That led the favour'd youth astray;
The day the rebel clans appear'd,

O had he never feen that day!
Their colours and their fafh he wore,
And in the fatal drefs was found;
And now he must that death endure,

Which gives the brave the keeneit wound. How pale was then his true-love's cheek, When Jemmy's fentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine fnows

so pale, or yet fo chill appear.
With faultering voice, the weeping said,
Oh Dawson, monarch of my heart;
Think not thy death fhall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.
Yet might fweet mercy find a place,

And bring relief to Jemmy's woes ;
O George, without a prayer for thee,
My orizons fhould never clofe.
The gracious prince that gave him life,
Would crown a never-dying flame;
And every tender babe I bore

Should learn to lip the giver's name. But though he should be dragg'd in fcorn To yonder ignominious tree;

He fhall not want one conftant friend
To share the cruel fates' decree.

1

O then her mourning coach was call'd,
The fledge mov'd flowly on before,
Though borne in a triumphal car,
She had not lov'd her favourite more.
She follow'd him, prepar'd to view
The terrible behefts of law;
And the laft fcene of Jemmy's woes,
With calm and ftedfaft eye fhe faw.
Distorted was that blooming face,

Which he had fondly lov'd fo long;
And flified was that tuneful breath,

Which in her praife had fweetly fung.

And fever'd was that beauteous neck,
Round which her arms had fondly clos'd;

Execution, in the year 1745.

Nor will you, fcorn to heave a figh,

Nor necd you blush to fhed a tear. And thou, dear K tty, peerlefs maid,

Do thou a penfive ear incline; For thou canft weep at every woe;

And pity every plaint-but mine. Young Dawfon was a gallant boy,

A brighter never trod the plain; And well he lov'd one charming maid, And dearly was he lov'd again. Que tender maid, the lov'd him dear Of gentle blood the demfel came; And faultlefs was her beauteous form, And fpotlefs was her virgin fame.

On which her love-fick head repos'd: And ravish'd was that conftant heart, She did to every heart prefer ; For though it could its King forget, 'Twas true and loyal ftill to her. Amid thefe unrelenting flames,

She bore this conftant heart to fee; But when 'twas moulder'd into duft, Yet, yet, fhe cry'd, I follow thee. My death, my death alone can fhew The pure, the lafting love 1 bore; Accept, O heaven! of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more. The dismal scene was o'er and past,

The lover's mournful hear fe retir'd; The maid drew back her languid head, And, fighing forth his name, expir'd.

Though

Though juftice ever muft prevail,

The tear my Kitty fheds is due : For feldom fhall the hear a tale So fad, so tender, yet so true.

M

II. HOPE.

Y banks they are furnish'd with bees. Whofe murmur invites one to fleep; My grottos are fhaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep. I feldom have met with a lofs,

Such health do my fountains beflow;

1743.

"Arbufta humilefque myrice." VIRS.

E

I. ABSENCE.
NCE.

Y flocks never i

Whole flocks never carelessly roam; Should Corydon's happen to ftray,

Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to mufe and to figh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was fo watchful I;

I have left my dear Phillis behind. Now I know what it is, to have strove With the torture of doubt and defire; What it is to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire.

Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each evening repel;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn:

-I have bade my dear Phillis farewel.
Since Phillis vouchfaf'd me a look,

I never once dreamt of my vine:
May I loofe both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
I priz'd every hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are paft, and I figh;

And I grieve that I priz'd' them no more. But why do I languish in vain';

Why wander thus penfively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the fmiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favourite maid,

The pride of the valley, is flown
Alas! where with her I have ftray'd,

I could wander with pleafure, alone. When forc'd the fair nymph to forego, What anguish I felt at my heart! Yet I thought-but it might not be fo'Twas with pain that fhe faw me depart. She gaz'd, as I flowly withdrew;

M, path I could hardly discern; So fweetly fhe bid me adieu,

I thought that fhe bade me return. The Pilgrim that journeys all day To vifit fome far-diftant fhrine, If he bear but a relique away, Is happy, nor heard to repine. Thus widely remov'd'from the fair, Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,

Soft hope is the relique 1 bear,

And my folace wherever I go.

Where the hare-bells and violets grow. Not a pine in my grove is there feen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a fweet-briar entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear,

But it glitters with fifhes of gold.. One would think the might like to retire To the bower I have labour'd to rear; Not a fhrub that I heard her admire,

But hafted and planted it there. O how fudden the jeffamine ftrove With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away. I

From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,
What ftrains of wild melody flow!
How the nightingales warble their loves
From thickets of rofes that blow !
And when her bright form fhail appear,
Each bird fhall harmoniously join
In a concert fo foft and fo clear,

As he may not be fond to refign.
I have found out a gift for my fair;

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear,

She will fay 'twas a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er could be true, fhe aver'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young;
And I lov'd her the more when I heard
Such tendernefs fall from her tongue.

I have heard her with fweetnefs unfold
How that pity was due to-a dove:
That it ever attended the bold;

And he call'd it the fifter of love.
But her words fuch a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her fpeak, and whatever the fay,
Methinks I fhould love her the more.
Can a bofom fo gentle remain

Unmov'd, when her Corydon fighs!
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
Thefe plains and this valley defpitc?
Dear regions of filence and fhade!

Soft fcenes of contentment and eafe!
Where I could have pleasingly firay'd,
If aught, in her abfence, could pleafe.
But where does my Phyllida ftray?

And where are her grots and her bowers?
Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the thepherds as gentle as ours?

The

The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine; The fwains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine.

The language that flows from the heart,
Isa ftranger to Paridel's tongue;
-Yet may the beware of his art
Or fure I muft envy the song.

III. SOLICITUDE.

WHE

HY will you my paffion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I fhew you the charms of my love,
She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien fhe enamours the brave;
With her wit fhe engages the free ;
With her modefty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleafing 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 fwain,

That will fing but a fong in her praise.
When he fings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and liften 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,
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might she ruin the peace of my mind !
In ringlets he dreffes his hair,

And his crook is beftudded around;
And his pipe-oh my Phyllis beware
Of a magic there is in the found.
'Tis his with mock paffion to glow,

'Tis his in fmooth tales to unfold,
"How her face is as bright as the fnow,
And her bofom, be fure, 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 strays,
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 fweet than the jeffamine's flower!
What are pinks in a morn, to compare?
What is eglantine, after a fhower?
Then the lily no longer is white;
Then the rofe is depriv'd of its bloom;
Then the violets die with defpight,

And the wood-bines give up their perfume,"

Thus glide the foft numbers along,

And he fancies no fhepherd his peer;
-Yet I never fhould envy the fong,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phyllis the trophy defpife:
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes.

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT.

Y

E fhepherds, give ear to my lay, And take no more heed of my sheep: They have nothing to do but to ftray; I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove;

She was fair-and my paffion begun ;
She fmil'd-aud I could not but love;
She is faithlefs--and I am undone.
Perhaps I was void of all thought:
Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a nymph fo complete would be fought
By a fwain more engaging than me.
Ah! love every hope can infpire:

It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
She is faithlefs, and I am undone ;

Ye that witnefs the woes I endure;
Let reafon inftruct you to fhun

What it cannot inftruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain

A mid nymphs of an higher degree;
It is not for me to explain

How fair, and how fickle, they be.
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 comfort for me. The fweets of a dew-fprinkled rofe,

The found of a murmuring ftream, The peace which from folitude flows, Henceforth fhall be Corydon's theme. High tranfports are fhewn to the fight; But we are not to find them our own; Fate never beftow'd fuch delight,

As I with my Phyllis had known,

O ye woods, fpread your branches apace;
To your deepeft rcceffes I fly;

I would hide with the beafts of the chafe;
I would vanifh from every eye.
Yet my reed fhall refound through the grove
With the fame fad complaint it begun;
How the fmil-d, and I could not but love;
Was faithlefs, and I am undone !

LEVITIES