To a Lady, on the Death of Colonel Charles Rofs, in the Action at Fontenoy. Written May, 1745.

WHILE, loft to all his former mirth,

Britannia's genius bends to earth,

And mourns the fatal day:

While ftain'd with blood he strives to tear

Unfeemly from his fea-green hair

The wreaths of chearful May:

The thoughts which mufing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:

Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.

By rapid Scheld's defcending wave
His country's vows fhall blefs the grave,
Wheree'er the youth is laid :

That facred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf shall bind,

And Peace protect the fhade.

O'er him, whofe doom thy virtues grieve,
Arial forms fhall fit at eve,

d bend the penfive head;

And,

And, fall'n to fave his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's aweful hand

Shall point his lonely bed!

The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair récording page,
Shall leave their fainted reft:
And, half-reclining on his fpear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.

Old Edward's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Creffy's laurel'd field,
with fix'd delight:

And gaze

Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they fnatch the gleamy fteel,
And with th' avenging fight.

But, lo! where, funk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!

Her matted tresses madly spread,
every fod which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyless eyes.

Το

Ne'er fhall fhe leave that lowly ground,
Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign restor❜d:

Till William feek the fad retreat,
And, bleeding at her facred feet,
Prefent the fated fword.

If, weak to foothe so soft an heart,
These pictur'd glories nought impart,
To dry thy constant tear :

If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Expos'd and pale thou fee'st him lie,
Wild war infulting near:

Wheree'er from time thou court'ft relief,
The Muse shall still, with focial grief,
Her gentleft promise keep :
Ev'n humble Harting's cottag'd vale
Shall learn the fad repeated tale,

I

And bid her fhepherds weep.

ODE TO EVENING.

Faught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,

May hope, chafte Eve, to foothe thy modeft ear,
Like thy own folemn springs,

Thy fprings, and dying gales;

O nymph referv'd, while now the bright-hair'd fun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-ey'd bat,
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds

all but fullen horn,

As

As oft he rifes 'midft the twilight path,

Against the pilgrim borne in heedlefs hum:
Now teach me, maid compos'd,

To breathe fome foften'd ftrain,

Whose numbers, ftealing through thy darkening vale,
May not unfeemly with its ftillness fuit,
As, mufing flow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!

For when thy folding star arifing shows

b

His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours, and elves

Who flept in buds the day,

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with fedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,

The penfive pleasures sweet

Prepare thy fhadowy car.

Then let me rove fome wild and heathy scene,
Or find fome ruin 'midst its dreary dells,
Whofe walls more aweful nod

By thy religious gleams.

Or if chill bluftering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's fide,

Views wilds, and fwelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their fimple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

7

W

While Spring shall pour his fhowers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing treffes, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to fport
Beneath thy lingering light:

While fallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy fhrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes :

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendfhip, Science, fmiling Peace,
Thy gentleft influence own,
And love thy favourite name!

13

ODE то

PEACE.

Thou, who bad'ft thy turtles bear

Swift from his grasp thy golden hair, And fought'ft thy native fkies:

When war, by vultures drawn from far,

To Britain bent his iron car,

And bade his ftorms arife!

Tir'd of his rude tyrannic sway,
Our youth fhall fix fome feftive day,

His fullen fhrines to burn:

But thou, who hear'ft the turning spheres, What founds may charm thy partial ears, in thy bleft return!

O Peace,