"Henry, fhe faid, by thy dear form fubdued,
See the fad reliques of a nymph undone!
I find, I find this rifing fob renew'd:

I figh in fhades, and ficken at the fun.
Amid the dreary gloom of night, I cry,

When will the morn's once pleafing fcenes return? Yet what can morn's returning ray fupply,

But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn! Alas! no more that joyous morn appears

That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame; For I haye fteep'd a father's couch in tears,

And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame.
The vocal birds that raise their matin strain,
The sportive lamps, increafe my penfive moan;
All seem to chafe me from the chearful plain,
And talk of truth and innocence alone.

If through the garden's flowery tribes I ftray,
Where bloom the jafmines that could once allure,
Hope not to find delight in us, they say,
For we are spotlefs, Jeffy; we are pure.

Ye flowers! that well reproach a nymph so frail;
Say, could ye with my virgin fame compare?
The brightest bud that fcents the vernal gale
Was not fo fragrant, and was not so fair.
Now the grave old alarm the gentler young;

And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee;
Trembles each lip, and faulters every tongue,

That bids the morn propitious smile on me.

Thus

Thus for your fake I fhun each human eye;
I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu;
To die I languish, but I dread to die,
Left my fad fate fhould nourish pangs for you,
Raise me from earth; the pains of want remove
And let me filent feek fome friendly fhore;
There only, banish'd from the form I love,
My weeping virtue fhall relapse no more,

Be but my friend; I afk no dearer name;

Be fuch the meed of fome more artful fair;
Nor could it heal my peace, or chase my shame,
That pity gave, what love refus'd to share.
Force not my tongue to afk its fcanty bread;
Nor hurl thy Jeffy to the vulgar crew;
Not fuch the parent's board at which I fed!
Not fuch the precept from his lips I drew !
Haply, when age has filver'd o'er my hair,
Malice may learn to fcorn fo mean a fpoil;
Envy may flight a face no longer fair;

And pity, welcome, to my native foil."
She spoke-nor was I born of savage race;
Nor could thefe hands a niggard boon affign;
Grateful the clafp'd me in a laft embrace,

And vow'd to waste her life in prayers for mine, I faw her foot the lofty bark afcend;

I faw her breaft with every paffion heave ;

I left her-torn from every earthly friend;

Oh! my hard bofom, which could bear to leave!

4

Brief

Brief let me be; the fatal ftorm arose;

The billows rag'd, the pilot's art was vain
O'er the tall maft the circling furges clofe;
My Jeffy-floats upon the watery plain !
And-fee my youth's impetuous fires decay;
Seek not to stop reflection's bitter tear;
But warn the frolic, and inftruct the gay,
From Jeffy floating on her watery bier!

ODES,

[79]

ODES, SONGS, BALLADS, &c.

RURAL ELEGANCE.

An ODE to the late Duchefs of SOMERSET. Written 1750.

W

HILE orient skies reftore the day,
And dew-drops catch the lucid ray;

Amid the fprightly fcenes of morn,
Will aught the Mufe inspire'
Oh! Peace to yonder ciamorous horn
That drowns the facred lyre!

Ye rural thanes that o'er the moffy down
Some panting, timorous hare pursue;
Does nature mean your joys alone to crown ?
Say, does the fmooth he lawns for you?
For you does echo bid the rocks reply,
And urg'd by rude constraint refound the jovial cry?

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn
The wretched fwain your sport furvey;

He finds his faithful fences torn,

He finds his labour'd crops a prey;
He fees his flock-no more in circles feed;
Haply beneath your ravage bleed,

And with no random curfes loads the deed.

Nor

Nor yet, ye fwains, conclude

That nature smiles for you alone;

Your bounded fouls, and your conceptions crude,
The proud, the selfish boast disown:
Yours be the produce of the foil:
O may it still reward your toil!

Nor ever the defenceless train

Of clinging infants ask support in vain ?

But though the various harvest gild your plains,
Does the mere landscape feaft your eye?

Or the warm hope of diftant gains
Far other caufe of glee fupply?
Is not the red-freak's future juice
The fource of your delight profound,
Where Ariconium pours her gems profufe,
Purpling a whole horizon round?

Athirst ye praise the limpid stream, 'tis true:
But though, the pebbled fhores among,
It mimic no unpleafing fong,

The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.

Unpleas'd ye fee the thickets bloom,

Unpleas'd the fpring her flowery robe refume;
Unmov'd the mountain's airy pile,

The dappled mead without a fimile.

O let a rural confcious Mufe,

For well she knows, your froward sense accufe: Forth to the folemn oak you bring the fquare, And span the maffy trunk, before you cry, 'tis fair.

Nor