For public haunts, impell'd by Britain's weal, And courts and cells in vain our hopes renew: But ah! where Grenvile charms the liftening ear, "Tis hard to think the chearless maxim true. The groves may fmile; the rivers gently glide; Soft through the vale refound the lonesome lay. Ev'n thickets yield delight, if taste prefide; But can they pleafe, when Lyttelton's away? Pure as the fwain's the breast of *** glows, Ah! were the shepherd's phrase, like his, refin'd! But, how improv'd the generous dictate flows Through the clear medium of a polish'd mind! Happy the youths who, warm with Britain's love, Her inmoft with in **** 's periods hear! Happy that in the radiant circle move, Attendant orbs, where Lonfdale gilds the fphere! While rural faith, and every polish'd art, Each friendly charm, in *** confpire, Go, plaintive youth! no more by fount or stream, Then cover'd by thy ripen'd shades, resume TO DELIA, with fome flowers; complaining how much his benevolence suffers on account of his humble fortune. W Hate'er could fculpture's curious art employ, Whate'er the lavish hand of wealth can fhower, These would I give-and every gift enjoy, That pleas'd my fair-but fate denies the power. Bleft were my lot to feed the focial fires ! To learn the latent wishes of a friend! To give the boon his native taste admires, And And oh the joy! to fhun the confcious light, To range where daizies open, rivers roll; While profe or fong the languid hours amuse, And foothe the fond impatience of my foul. A while I'll weave the roofs of jafmine bowers, And urge with trivial cares the loitering year; A while I'll prune my grove, protect my flowers, Then, unlamented, prefs an early bier! Of thofe lov'd flowers the lifeless corfe may fhare Some hireling hand a fading wreath bestow : The reft will breathe as fweet, will glow as fair, As when their master smil'd to see them glow. The fequent morn shall wake the fylvan quire; The kid again fhall wanton ere 'tis noon; Nature will fimile, will wear her beft attire; O! let not gentle Delia smile so soon! While the rude hearfe conveys me flow away, I blefs the filent path the fates decree ; To raze the moments crown'd with blifs and thee. Defcribing the forrow of an ingenuous mind, on the melancholy event of a licentious amour. HY mourns my friend! why weeps his down WH caft eye! That eye where mirth, where fancy us'd to shine? Thy chearful meads reprove that fwelling figh; Spring ne'er enamel'd fairer meads than thine. Art thou not lodg'd in fortune's warm embrace? Wert thou not form'd by nature's partial care? Bleft in thy song, and blest in every grace That wins the friend, or that enchants the fair? Damon, faid he, thy partial praise restrain; Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore; Alas! his very praise awakes my pain, And my poor wounded bofom bleeds the more. For oh! that nature on my birth had frown'd, Or fortune fix'd me to fome lowly cell; Then had my bofom 'fcap'd this fatal wound, Nor had I bid thefe vernal fweets, farewel. But But led by fortune's hand, her darling child, Ah vices! gilded by the rich and gay! Suftain'd by virtue, but betray'd by love. I cloath'd each feature with affected fcorn; And, feigning, left her anxious and forlorn. To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the rest? "Henry's |