The fun's forgotten beams :

O fun! how pleafing were thy rays,
Reflected from the polish'd face
Of yon refulgent streams!

Rais'd by the scene, my feeble tongue
Effay'd again the fweets of fong:
And thus, in feeble strains and flow,
The loitering numbers 'gan to flows.

"Come, gentle air! my languid limbs restore,
And bid me welcome from the Stygian shore :
For furc I heard the tender fighs,

I feem'd to join the plaintive cries

Of hapless youths, who through the myrtle grove Bewail for ever their unfinish'd love :

To that unjoyous clime,

Torn from the fight of thefe etherial skies;
Debarr'd the luftre of their Delia's eyes;
And banish'd in their prime.

Come, gentle air! and, while the thickets bloom,
Convey the jafmine's breath divine ;
Convey the woodbine's rich perfume,
Nor fpare the sweet-leaft eglantine.
And may'ft thou fhun the rugged storm
Till health her wonted charms explain,
With rural pleasure in her train,
To greet me in her fairest form.

While from this lofty mount I view
The fons of earth, the vulgar crew,

4

Anxious

Anxious for futile gains beneath me ftray,

And seek with erring step contentment's obvious way. Come, gentle air! and thou, celestial Mufe,

Thy genial flame infuse ;
Enough to lend a penfive bofom aid,

And gild retirement's gloomy fhade;
Enough to rear such ruftic lays

As foes may flight, but partial friends will praite."
The gentle air allow'd my claim;

And, more to chear my drooping frame,
She mix'd the balm of opening flowers;
Such as the bee, with chemic powers,
From Hybla's fragrant hills inhales,
Or fcents Sabea's blooming vales.

But ah! the nymphs that heal the pensive mind,
By prefcripts more refin'd,

Neglect their votary's anxious moan:

Oh, how fhould they relieve?-the Mufes all were flown.

By flowery plain, or woodland fhades,
I fondly fought the charming maids;
By woodland fhades, or flowery plain,
I fought them, faithlefs maids! in vain!
When lo! in happier hour,

I leave behind my native mead,

To range where zeal and friendship lead,

To vifit Luxborough's honour'd bower.
Ah foolish man! to feek the tuneful maids
On other plains, or near lefs verdant shades;

Scarce

Scarce have my foot-steps prefs'd the favour'd ground,
When founds etherial ftrike my ear;
At once celestial forms appear;

My fugitives are found!

The Mufes here attune their lyres,

Ah partial! with unwonted fires;

Here, hand in hand, with careless mien,
The fportive Graces trip the green.

But whilft I wander'd o'er a scene so fair,
Too well at one furvey I trace,

How every Mufe, and every Grace,
Had long employ'd their care.

Lurks not a stone enrich'd with lively stain,
Blooms not a flower amid the vernal store,
Falls not a plume on India's diftant plain,
Glows not a fhell on Adria's rocky fhore,
But, torn methought from native lands or feas,
From their arrangement, gain freth power to please.
And fome had bent the wildering maze,
Bedeckt with every fhrub that blows;
And fome entwin'd the willing sprays,
To fhield th' illuftrious dame's repose:
Others had grac'd the fprightly dome,
And taught the portrait where to glow;
Others arrang'd the curious tome;
Or, 'mid the decorated space,

Affign'd the laurel'd bust a place,

And given to learning all the pomp of show.

And

And now from every task withdrawn,
They met and frisk'd it o'er the lawn.

Ah! woe is me, faid I;

And ***'s hilly circuit heard my cry,
Have I for this, with labour ftrove,
And lavish'd all my little ftore
To fence for you my shady grove,
And fcollop every winding fhore;
And fringe with every purple rose,
The fapphire ftream that down my valley flows?

Ah! lovely treacherous maids!

To quit unfeen my votive fhades,

When pale disease, and torturing pain,

Had torn me from the breezy plain,
And to a reftlefs couch confin'd,

Who ne'er your wonted tasks declin'd.
She needs not your officious aid

To fwell the fong, or plan the shade;
By genuine fancy fir'd,

Her native genius guides her hand,
And while fhe marks the fage command,
More lovely scenes her skill shall raife,

Her lyre refound with nobler lays

Than ever you inspir’d.

Thus I may rage and grief display;
But vainly blame, and vainly mourn,
Nor will a Grace or Mufe return

Till Luxborough lead the way,

Το

To a LADY, with fome coloured Patterns of Flowers, October 7, 1736.

MADAM!

THOUGH rude the draughts, though artless seem

the lines,

From one unskill'd in verse, or in designs;
Oft has good-nature been the fool's defence,
And honeft meaning gilded want of fenfe.

Fear not, though flowers and beauty grace my lay,
To praise one fair, another shall decay.
No lily, bright with painted foliage, here,
Shall only languish, when Selinda's near:
A Fate revers'd no fmiling rofe fhall know,
Nor with reflected luftre doubly glow.
Praifes which languish when apply'd to you,
Where flattering schemes feem obviously true,

Yet fure your fex is near to flowers ally'd, Alike in foftness, and alike in pride : Foes to retreat, and ever fond to shine, Both rush to danger, and the fhades decline; Expos'd, the fhort-liv'd pageants of a day, To painted flies or glittering fops a prey : Chang'd with each wind, nor one short day the same, Each clouded sky affects their tender frame. In glaring Chloe's man-like taste and mien, Are the grofs fplendors of the Tulip seen : Distant they strike, inelegantly gay,

To the near view no pleafing charms display.

To