Lyttelton my honour'd gueft,
Could I defcribe thy generous breast,
Thy firm, yet polish'd mind;
How public love adorns thy name,
How fortune too confpires with fame;

The fong should please mankind.

VERSES written towards the Clofe of the
Year 1748, to WILLIAM LYTTELTON, Efq;

HOW blithely pafs'd the fummer's day!
How bright was every flower!

While friends arriv'd, in circles gay,

To vifit Damon's bower!

But now, with filent ftep, I range
Along fome lonely fhore;

And Damon's bower, alas the change!
Is gay with friends no more.
Away to crowds and cities borne

In queft of joy they steer;
Whilft I, alas! am left forlorn,
To weep the parting year!
O penfive Autumn! how I grieve
Thy forrowing face to fee!
When languid funs are taking leave
Of every drooping tree.

Ah let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey!

Hafte, Winter, hafte; ufurp the sky;

Compleat my bower's decay.

Ill can I bear the motly caft

Yon fickening leaves retain;
That speak at once of pleasure paft,
And bode approaching pain.

At home unbleft, I gaze around,
My distant scenes require;
Where all in murky vapours drown'd
Are hamlet, hill, and spire.

Though Thomson, sweet descriptive bard!
Infpiring Autumn fung!

"Yet how fhould we the months regard,
That stopp'd his flowing tongue?

Ah luckless months, of all the reft,
To whofe hard fhare it fell!
For fure he was the gentleft breaft
That ever fung fo well.

And fee, the fwallows now difown
The roofs they lov'd before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown
To glad fome happier shore.

The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
The sportsman's frantic deed;

While hounds and horns and yells unite

To drown the Mufe's reed.

Ye fields with blighted herbage brown,

Ye skies no longer blue!

Too much we feel from fortune's frown,

To bear these frowns from you.

Where

Where is the mead's unfully'd green?

The zephyr's balmy gale?

And where sweet friendship's cordial mien,

That brighten'd every vale ?

What though the vine disclose her dyes,

And boast her purple ftore;'
Not all the vineyard's rich fupplies

Can foothe our forrows more.

He! he is gone, whofe moral train
Could wit and mirth refine;
He! he is gone, whofe focial vein
Surpafs'd the power of wine.

Faft by the streams he deign'd to praife,
In yon fequefter'd grove,

To him a votive urn I raise;

To him, and friendly love.

Yes there, my friend! forlorn and fad,
I grave your Thomfon's name ;
And there, his lyre; which fate forbad
To found your growing fame.

There shall my plaintive fong recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe;
And fafter than the dropping fount,
I'll teach mines eyes to flow.

There leaves, in fpite of Autumn green,

Shall fhade the hallow'd ground; And Spring will there again be feen,

To call forth flowers around,

But no kind funs will bid me share,
Once more, his focial hour;
Ah Spring! thou never canst repair
This lofs, to Damon's bower.

LOVE

AND

MUSI C.

Written at Oxford, when young.

SHALL Love alone for ever claim

An univerfal right to fame,

An undifputed fway?

Or has not Music equal charms,

To fill the breast with strange alarms,
And make the world obey?

The Thracian Bard, as Poets tell,
Could mitigate the Powers of hell;

Ev'n Pluto's nicer ear:

His arts, no more than Love's, we find
To deities or men confin'd,

Drew brutes in crouds to hear.

:

Whatever favourite paffion reign'd,
The Poet still his right maintain’d
O'er all that rang'd the plain
The fiercer tyrants could affwage,
Or fire the timorous into rage,
Whene'er he chang'd the strain.

In milder lays the Bard began ;
Soft notes through every finger ran,

And

And echoing charm'd the place:

See! fawning lions gaze around,

And, taught to quit their favage found,

Affume a gentler grace.

When Cymon view'd the fair-one's charms,

Her ruby lips, and fnowy arms,

And told her beauties o'er:

When love reform'd his awkward tone,
And made each clownish gesture known,
It fhew'd but equal power.

The Bard now tries a sprightlier sound,
When all the feather'd race around
Perceive the varied strains ;

The foaring lark the note pursues ;
The timorous dove around him cooes,
And Philomel complains.

An equal power of Love I 've seen
Incite the deer to fcour the green,

And chace his barking foe.

Sometimes has Love, with greater might,
To challenge-nay-sometimes-to fight
Provok'd th' enamour'd beau.

When Silvia treads the smiling plain,
How glows the heart of every swain,
By pleafing tumults tost!

When Handel's folemn accents roll,
Each breaft is fir'd, each raptur'd foul

In fweet confufion loft.

If the her melting glances dart,

Or he his dying airs impart,