Ah, now no more, the fhepherd cry'd, No more of fawns or fairies dream, By low-brow'd rock, or pathless mead, But who alas! will dare contend, Nor is it long-O plaintive fwain! * The partner of his early days, And once the rival of his praise, Had ftol'n through life unseen. Scarce faded is the vernal flower, To fmile familiar here: form'd by nature to disclose How fair that courtesy which flows Nor yet have many moons decay'd, *They were school-fellows. The The nobleft breast that virtue fires, Might pant for Pollio's praife. Say Thomson here was known to rest, Ah, never to return! In place of wit, and melting strains, Come then, my Lælius, come once more, With rofes and with bays, While Philo, to whose favour'd fight, Her inmoft wealth displays; Beneath yon ruins moulder'd wall Here too fhall Conway's name appear, Yet clearness could it not difclofe, 1 Ev'n Pitt, whofe fervent periods roll Though form'd for courts, vouchfaf'd to rove But what can courts difcover more, Have not these trees and fountains feen And Grenville, fhe whofe radiant eyes Yet prais'd these unembellish'd woods, Say Dartmouth, who your banks admir'd, Shall grace the penfive shade; Brave, yet humane, shall Smith appear, Grant him in other spheres to charm, The shepherds' breasts though mild are warm, 0 O Lyttelton! my honour'd gueft, Thy firm, yet polish'd mind; The fong fhould please mankind. VERSES written towards the Clofe of the Year 1748, to WILLIAM LYTTELTON, Efq; H OW 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 step, I Along fome lonely fhore; range And Damon's bower, alas the change! Away to crowds and cities borne O penfive Autumn! how I grieve Of every drooping tree. Ah let me not, with heavy eye, Hafte, Winter, hafte; ufurp the sky; Ill can I bear the motley caft Yon fickening leaves retain; That speak at once of pleasure past, And bode approaching pain. At home unbleft, I gaze around, My diftant scenes require; Though Thomson, fweet defcriptive bard! Yet how should we the months regard, Ah lucklefs months, of all the reft, And fee, the fwallows now difown The roofs they lov'd before; The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright, 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, 3 Where |