Thine is the balmy breath of Morn, Juft as the dew-bent rofe is born; And while meridian fervours beat, Thine is the woodland dumb retreat: But chief, when evening scenes decay, And the faint landscape swims away, Thine is the doubtful foft decline, And that best hour of mufing thine. Descending angels bless thy train, The virtues of the fage and fwain; Plain Innocence, in white array'd, Before thee lifts her fearless head: Religion's beams around thee shine, And cheer thy glooms with light divine; About thee sports sweet Liberty;

And rapt Urania fings to thee.

Oh! let me pierce thy fecret cell,

And in thy deep receffes dwell.

Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,
When Meditation has her fill,

I just may caft my careless eyes
Where London's fpiry turrets rife,
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then fhield me in the woods again.

A poem facred to the memory of Sir Ifaac New-

ton. Infcribed to the Right Hon. Sir Robert

Walpole,

A poem to the

memory of the Right Hon. the

Lord Talbot, late Chancellor of Great-Britain.

Addreffed to his fon,

POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

Verfes occafioned by the death of Mr. Aikman,

a particular friend of the Author's,

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