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Zammono., If late at dusk, while carelessly Iroam,

I meet a’strolling kid or bleating lamb,
Under my arm I'll bring the wand'rer home,
And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.

What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast!
Or lulld to flumber by the heating rain,
Secure and happy, fink at last to rest!

Or if the sun in flaming Leo ride
By shady rivers indolently stray
And with my Delia, walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur as they glide away!

What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop, and gaze on Delia as I go!
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!

Thus pleas'd at not with Fancy's dream,
- In filent happiness I rest unknown,
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for Delia and myself alone,

Ah! foolish man! who thus of her poflest
Could float and wander with Ambition's wind,
And if his outward trappings fpoke him blest
Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind

With her I scorn the idle breath of Praise,
Nor trust to happiness that's not our own:
The smile of Fortune might suspicion raise,
But here, I know that I am lov'd alone,

Stanhope, in wisdom as in wit divine,
May rise and plead Britannia's glorious cause,
With steady rein his eager wit confine,
While manly sense the deep: attention draws,'

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Let Stanhope Speak his liftning Country's wrongs, hammond.
My humble voice shall please one partial maid;
For her alone I pen my tender songs,
Securely sitting in his friendly shade.
Stanhope shall come and grace his rural friend;
Delia i hall wonder at her noble guet,
With blushing awe the riper fruit commend
And for her husband's patron call the best.

Her's be the care of all my little train
While I with tender indolence am bleft,
The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
By love alone distinguish'd from the rest

For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plow,
In gloomy forest tend my lonely flock;
For her a goat therd climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the nacked rock.

Ah! what avails to press the stately bed,
And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep,
By marble fountains lay the pensive head
And while they murmur strive in vain to sleep?

Delia alone can please and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight:
With her enjoyment wakens new defire,
And equal rapture glows thro' ev'ry night,

Beauty and worth in her alike contend
To charm the fancy and to fix the mind:
In her my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd.

On her I'll gaze when others' loves are o'er,
And dying press her with my clay.cold hand
Thou weep'st already as I wereno more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand,

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bammond. Oh! when I die my latest moments (pare,

Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill:
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair.
Tho' I am dead my loul shall love thee still.

Oh! quit the room; oh! quit the deathful bed;
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart:
Oh! leave me, Delia! ere thou seest me dead;
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.

Let them extended on the decent bier
Convey the corse in melancholy state.
Thro' all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.

Shen She n ft on e.


S. B. I. S. 429. Unter seinen Gedichten ist eine Folge von fechs und zwanzig Elegieen, pol mannichfaltiger Schönheiten der Empfindung und des Ausdrucks, und meis Atentheils durch einzelne wirkliche Vorfälle veranlasst. Er hat ihnen einen kurzen Versuch über diese Dichtungsart vors ausgeschickt, worin er sie als die Ergießung eines betrachs tungsvollen Gemüths erklärt, die zuweilen Flagend, aber als lemal ernsthaft, und daher über allen Schimmer kleiner Vérzierungen erhaben ift. Dr. Johnson tabelt an diesen Elegieen die zu große Gleichförmigkeit des Inhalts, welcher faft in allen håusliches Glück, Ruhe und Genügsamkeit ift. Die folgende schrieb Sh. zum Andenken einer Privatfamilie in: Worcestershire, der penns von Barborough, einem Orte, dessen Namen in der angelsåchfischen auf ein beer anspielt; und es ist dort eine Sage, daß in jener Gegend zwischen den Britten und Rsmern eine Schlacht geliefert ser: und dieß ift die Grundlage der eingewebten Dichtung.

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From a lone tow'r with rev'rend ivy crown'd,
The pealing bell awak'd a tender figh;
Still as the village caught the waving sound,
A swelling tear distream'd from ev'ry eye,

So droop'd, I ween, each Briton's breast of old,
When the dull curfew spoke their freedom fled;
For, fighing as the mournful accent rollid,
Our hope," they cry'd, your kind support, is


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'Twas good Palemon! — Near a shaded pool, A group of ancient elms umbrageous role;

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The foking rooks, by Instinct's native rule,
This peaceful scene for their asylum chofe.

A few small spires, to Gothic fancy fair,
Amid the shades emerging struck the view;

'Twas here his youth respir'd its earliest air;
„'Twas here his age breath'd out its last adieu.“


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One favour'd son engag'd his tend'rest care:
One pious youth his whole affection crown'd;
In his young breast the virtues (prung so fair,
Such charms display'd, such sweets diffus'd around.

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But whilst gay transport in his face appears,
A noxious vapour clogs the poison'd lky,
Blasts the fair crop

-the fire is drown'd in tears,
And, scarce surviving, sees his Cynthio die!
O'er the pale corse we saw him gently bend;
Heart-chill'd with grief – „My thread," he cry'd,

is fpun!
„If Heav'n had meant I should my life extend,
„Heav'n had preserv'd my life's support, my son.

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Snatch'd in thy prime! alas! the stroke were mild.
,,Had my frail form obey'd the Fates' decree!

Bleis d were my lot, o Cynthio! o my child!
Had Heay'n fo pleas'd, and I had dy'd for thee.“

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Five sleepless nights he stemm'd this tide of woes;
Five irksome funs he faw, thro' tears, forlorn!
On his pale corse the sixth fad morning role;
From yonder dome the mournful bier was borne.

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'Twas on those Downs, by Roman hosts annoy'd,
Fought our hold fathers, rustic, unrefin'd!
Freedom's plain sons, in martial cares employ'd!
They ting'd their bodies, but unmai k'd their mind.

'Twas there, in happier times, this virtuous race,
Of milder merit, fix'd their calm retreat;


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