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Old EDWARD's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurelld field,

with fix'd delight; Again for Britain's wrongs they feel, Again they snatch the gleamy steel,

And wish th' avenging fight.

If, weak to footh so soft an heart,
These pictur'd glories nought impart

To dry thy constant tear;

yet in sorrow's distant eye, Expos'd and pale thou feeft him lie,

Wild war insulting near,

Where-e'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Muse shall still with social grief

Her gentle promise keep :
Ev'n humble HARTING's cottag'd vale
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,

And bid her shepherds weep.


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OW sleep the brave, who sink to reft,

By all their country's wishes bleft!
When Spring with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter fod,
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

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By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is Tung ;
There Honour comes, a PILGRIM grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,

And FREEDOM shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping HERMIT there !


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Faught of oaten stop, or paftoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to footh thy modeft ear,

Like thy own folemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales, O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits on yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts

With brede etherial wove,

Oe'rhang his wavy bed :
Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-ey'd bat,
With short shrill shrieks Aits by on leathern wing,

Or where the beetle winds

His small but fullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midle the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.

Now teach me, maid compos’d,
To breathe fome (often'd strain,
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Whose numbers stealing through thy dark’ning vale, v May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As musing now, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!;
For when thy folding star arising thews

w His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in flow'rs the day, And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with fedge, And sheds the fresh’ning dew, and lovelier still,


Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then lead, calm Votress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile,
Or up-land fallows

Reflect its last cool gleam.
But when chill bluft'ring winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut,

That from the mountain's side,

Views wilds, and swelling foods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.

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

While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy ling'ring light;
While fallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;
So long, fure-found beneath the Sylvan shed,
Shall Fancy, FRIENDSHIP,Science, rose-lip'dHEALTH,

Thy gentleft influence own,
And hymn thy fav'rite name!

VERSES written on a BLANK LEAF,

By Lord LANSDOWN, when he presented his

Works to the Queen, 1732.


Mufe expiring, who with earliest voice,

Made kings and queens, and beauty's charms her
Now on her death-bed, the last homage pays,
O Queen, to thee ; accept her dying lays.


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