"Henry, the faid, by thy dear form fubdued, I figh in fhades, and ficken at the fun. When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return? Yet what can morn's returning ray supply, But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn! Alas! no more that joyous morn appears That led the tranquil hours of fpotlefs fame; For I haye steep'd a father's couch in tears, And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with fhame. The vocal birds that raise their matin ftrain, The sportive lamps, increase my penfive moan; All feern to chafe me from the chearful plain, And talk of truth and innocence alone. If through the garden's flowery tribes I stray, Where bloom the jasmines 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; And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee; Thus Thus for your fake I fhun each human eye; Left my fad fate should nourish pangs for you, Be fuch the meed of fome more artful fair; my Force not my tongue to afk its scanty bread; And pity, welcome, to my native soil.” She fpoke-nor was I born of favage race; And vow'd to wafte her life in prayers for mine. I faw her foot the lofty bark afcend; I saw her breast with every paffion heave; I left her-torn from every earthly friend; Oh! my hard bofom, which could bear to leave! Brief let me be; the fatal storm arose; The billows rag'd, the pilot's art was vain ODES, [79] ODES, SONGS, BALLADS, &c. RURAL ELEGANCE. An ODE to the late Duchefs of SOMERSET. Written 1750. WHILE orient skies restore the day, And dew-drops catch the lucid ray; Amid the sprightly fcenes of morn, . Oh! Peace to yonder clamorous horn Ye rural thanes that o'er the moffy down Say, does the fmooth her lawns for you ? And urg❜d by rude constraint resound the jovial cry? See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn And with no random curíes loads the deed. Nor Nor yet, ye fwains, conclude That nature fmiles for you alone; Your bounded fouls, and your conceptions crude, O may it still reward your toil ! Of clinging infants ask support in vain ? But though the various harveft gild your plains, Does the mere landscape feast your eye? Or the warm hope of distant gains Far other cause of glee supply? The limpid fountain murmurs not for Unpleas'd ye fee the thickets bloom, you. Unpleas'd the fpring her flowery robe refume; Unmov'd the mountain's airy pile, The dappled mead without a finile. O let a rural confcious Mufe, For well she knows, your froward fense accuse: Forth to the folemn oak you bring the fquare, And span the maffy trunk, before you cry, 'tis fair. Nor |