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The fun's forgotten beams :
O fun! how pleafing were thy rays,
Rais'd by the scene, my feeble tongue
"Come, gentle air! my languid limbs restore,
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;
Come, gentle air! and, while the thickets bloom,
While from this lofty mount I view
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 ;
And gild retirement's gloomy fhade;
As foes may flight, but partial friends will praite."
And, more to chear my drooping frame,
But ah! the nymphs that heal the pensive mind,
Neglect their votary's anxious moan:
Oh, how fhould they relieve?-the Mufes all were flown.
By flowery plain, or woodland fhades,
I leave behind my native mead,
To range where zeal and friendship lead,
To vifit Luxborough's honour'd bower.
Scarce have my foot-steps prefs'd the favour'd ground,
My fugitives are found!
The Mufes here attune their lyres,
Ah partial! with unwonted fires;
Here, hand in hand, with careless mien,
But whilft I wander'd o'er a scene so fair,
How every Mufe, and every Grace,
Lurks not a stone enrich'd with lively stain,
Affign'd the laurel'd bust a place,
And given to learning all the pomp of show.
And now from every task withdrawn,
Ah! woe is me, faid I;
And ***'s hilly circuit heard my cry,
Ah! lovely treacherous maids!
To quit unfeen my votive fhades,
When pale disease, and torturing pain,
Had torn me from the breezy plain,
Who ne'er your wonted tasks declin'd.
To fwell the fong, or plan the shade;
Her native genius guides her hand,
Her lyre refound with nobler lays
Than ever you inspir’d.
Thus I may rage and grief display;
Till Luxborough lead the way,
To a LADY, with fome coloured Patterns of Flowers, October 7, 1736.
THOUGH rude the draughts, though artless seem
From one unskill'd in verse, or in designs;
Fear not, though flowers and beauty grace my lay,
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.