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The nobleft breaft that virtue fires,
Say Thomfon here was known to rest,
In place of wit, and melting strains,
Come then, my Lælius, come once more,
With roses and with bays,
While Philo, to whofe 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,
Ev'n Pitt, whofe fervent periods roll
Though form'd for courts, vouchfaf'd to rove
But what can courts difcover more,
Have not thefe trees and fountains feen
And Grenville, the whose radiant eyes
Yet prais'd these unembellish'd woods,
Say Dartmouth, who your banks admir'd,
Shall grace the pensive shade;
Brave, yet humane, fhall Smith appear,
Grant him in other fpheres to charm,
The shepherds' breasts though mild are warm, And ours are all his own.
O Lyttelton my honour'd get,
The fong fhould please mankind.
VERSES written towards the Clofe of the Year 1748, to WILLIAM LYTTELTON, Efq;
HOW 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 ftep, I range
Along fome lonely shore;
And Damon's bower, alas the change!
Away to crowds and cities borne
Of every drooping tree.
Ah let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey!
Hafte, Winter, hafte; ufurp the sky;
Compleat my bower's decay.
Ill can I bear the motley caft
Yon fickening leaves retain ;
At home unbleft, I gaze around,
Though Thomson, sweet descriptive bard!
Yet how fhould we the months regard,
Ah lucklefs months, of all the reft,
For fure he was the gentleft breast
And fee, the fwallows now difown
The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
Ye fields with blighted herbage brown,
Ye fkies no longer blue!
Too much we feel from fortune's frown,
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,
And boast her purple store;
He! he is gone, whofe moral strain
He he is gone, whofe focial vein
Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise,
To him a votive urn I raife;
To him, and friendly love.
Yes there, my friend! forlorn and fad,
There fhall my plaintive fong recount
There leaves, in fpite of Autumn green,
To call forth flowers around.