[LEE.]

HAIL to the myrtle shade,

All hail to the nymphs of the fields Kings would not here invade

The pleasure that virtue yields. Beauty here opens her arms;

To soften the languishing mind, And Phyllis unlocks her charms; Ah Phyllis! oh why so unkind?

Phyllis, thou soul of love,

Thou joy of the neighbouring swains; Phyllis, that crowns the grove,

And Phyllis that gilds the plains; Phyllis, that ne'er had the skill

To paint, to patch and be fine,

Yet Phyllis whose eyes can kill,
Whom nature hath made divine.

Phyllis, whose charming song

Makes labour and pains a delight; Phyllis, that makes the day young, And shortens the live-long night; Phyllis, whose lips like May

Still laugh at the sweets they bring; Where love never knows decay,

But sits with eternal spring.

THE MIDSUMMER WISH.

[CROXALL.*]

WAFT me some soft and cooling breeze
To Windsor's shady kind retreat,
Where sylvan scenes, wide spreading trees
Repel the raging dog-star's heat.

Where tufted grass, and mossy beds
Afford a rural calm repose;

Where woodbines hang their dewy heads,
And fragrant sweets around disclose.

Old oozy Thames that flows fast by
Along the smiling valley plays;
His glassy surface cheers the eye,
And thro' the flow'ry meadows strays.

His fertile banks with herbage green
His vales with smiling plenty swell;
Where'er his purer stream is seen

The Gods of health and pleasure dwell.

* Written when the author was at Eton School.

Let me thy clear, thy yielding wave
With naked arm once more divide;
In thee my glowing bosom lave

And stem thy gently rolling tide.

Lay me with damask roses crown'd
Beneath some osier's dusky shade,
Where water lilies paint the ground

And bubbling springs refresh the glade.

Let chaste Clarinda too be there
With azure mantle lightly drest;
Ye nymphs bind up her silken hair;
Ye Zephyrs fan her panting breast.

O haste away, fair maid, and bring
The Muse, the kindly friend to love,
To thee alone the Muse shall sing

And warble thro' the vocal grove.

WHILE in the bower with beauty blest

The lov'd Amintor lies,

While sinking on Zelinda's breast
He fondly kiss'd her eyes;

A waking nightingale who long
Had mourn'd within the shade,
Sweetly renew'd her plaintive song,
And warbled thro' the glade.

Melodious songstress, cried the swain,
To shades less happy go,
Or if with us thou wilt remain,
Forbear thy tuneful woe.

While in Zelinda's arms I lie
To song I am not free;
On her soft bosom while I sigh
I discord find in thee.

Zelinda gives me perfect joys;
Then cease thy fond intrusion;
Be silent; music now is noise

Variety, confusion.

[SMOLLETT.]

WHEN
HEN Sappho tun'd the raptur'd strain
The list'ning wretch forgot his pain;
With art divine the lyre she strung,
Like thee she play'd, like thee she sung.

For while she struck the quiv'ring wire
The
eager breast was all on fire;
And when she join'd the vocal lay
The captive soul was charm'd away.

But had she added still to these
Thy softer, chaster, power to please;
Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth,
Thy native smiles of artless truth;

She ne'er had pin'd beneath disdain,
She ne'er had play'd and sung in vain ;
Despair had ne'er her soul possest
To dash on rocks the tender breast.