VER SE S

Written towards the close of the Year 1748, to WILLIAM LYTTELTON, Efq;

By the Same.

HOW blithely pafs'd the summer's day!

How bright was every flow'r!

While friends arriv'd, in circles gay,

To vifit Damon's bow'r.

But now, with filent ftep, I range

Along fome lonely shore;

And Damon's bow'r, alas the change!
Is gay with friends no more.

Away to crowds and cities borne
In queft of joy they steer;
Whilft I, alas! am left forlorn,

To weep the parting year!

O penfive

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 fky;
Compleat my bow'r'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 distant 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 stopp'd his flowing tongue ?

Ah luckless months, of all the reft,
To whofe hard fhare it fell!

For fure he was the gentleft 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 fportfman's frantic deed 3
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

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, whose moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine;

He! he is gone, whose social vein
Surpass'd the pow'r of wine.

Fast 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 dropping fount,

I'll teach mine eyes to flow.

There

There leaves, in spite of Autumn, green,
Shall shade the hallow'd ground;

And Spring will then again be seen,
To call forth flowers around.

But no kind funs will bid me share,
Once more, His focial hour;
Ah Spring! thou never canft repair
This loss, to Damon's bow'r.

SONG S.

By the Same.

I.

Navale fring'd with woodland, where grottos abound, And rivulets murmur, and echoes refound, I vow'd to the Mufes my time and my care; Since neither could win me the fmiles of my fair.

As freedom infpir'd me, I rang'd and I fung;
And Daphne's dear name never fell from my tongue:
But if once a fmooth accent delighted my ear,

I should wish, unawares, that my Daphne might hear.

With