Where is the mead's unfullied 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, He! he is gone, whose moral strain Faft by the ftreams he deign'd to praise, To him a votive urn I raise; To him, and friendly love. Yes there, my friend! forlorn and fad, There leaves, in spite of Autumn green, To call forth flowers around. But But no kind funs will bid me share, Once more, his focial hour; Ah Spring! thou never canft repair LOVE AND MUSIC. Written at Oxford, when young. HALL Love alone for ever claim SHALL An univerfal right to fame, An undifputed fway? Or has not Mufic equal charms, To fill the breaft with ftrange alarms, The Thracian Bard, as Poets tell, His arts, no more than Love's, we find Drew brutes in crouds to hear. Whatever favourite paffion reign'd, In milder lays the Bard began; And And echoing charm'd the place: See! fawning lions gaze around, Affume a gentler grace. When Cymon view'd the fair-one's charms, Her ruby lips, and snowy arms, And told her beauties o'er: When love reform'd his awkward tone, The Bard now tries a sprightlier found, An equal power of Love I 've seen And chace his barking foe. When Silvia treads the fmiling plain, When Handel's folemn accents roll, In fweet confufion loft. If the her melting glances dart, L Our Our fpirits fink away. Enough, enough! dear nymph, give o'er; Thus love or found affects the mind: For when Selinda's charms appear, I burn, I faint, I die! 'T' COMPARISON. IS by comparison we know Its proper fhare of praise: Could admiration raise? Amidst the lucid bands of night, And praise the tuneful bird : But vainly might she strain her throat, Vainly exalt each swelling note, Should Silvia's voice be heard. 4 When When, on the violet's purple bed, The fragrant pillow charms : The alabafter's wonderous white, But ah! how faint that white is grown, How rough appears the polish'd stone, Compar'd with Silvia's mien! The rofe, that o'er the Cyprian plains, Plac'd near her cheek's celeftial red, (Its purple loft, its luftre fled,) Delights the fenfe no more. ODE ΤΟ CYNTHIA, N On the approach of SPRING. OW in the cowflip's dewy cell The fairies make their bed, They hover round the crystal well, The lovely linnet now her song Tunes fweeteft in the wood; The twittering fwallow skims along |