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The nobleft breaft that virtue fires,
The Graces love, the Mufe inspires,
Might pant for Pollio's praife.

Say Thomfon here was known to rest,
For him yon vernal feat I dreft,
Ah, never to return!

In place of wit, and melting strains,
And focial mirth, it now remains
To weep befide his urn.

Come then, my Lælius, come once more,
And fringe the melancholy fhore

With roses and with bays,
While I each wayward fate accufe,
That envy'd his impartial Mufe
To fing your early praife.

While Philo, to whofe favour'd fight,
Antiquity, with full delight,

Her inmoft wealth displays;

Beneath yon ruins moulder'd wall
Shall mufe, and with his friend recal!
The pomp of ancient days.

Here too fhall Conway's name appear,
He prais'd the ftream fo lovely clear,
That thone the reeds among;

Yet clearness could it not difclofe,
To match the rhetoric that flows
From Conway's polish'd tongue.

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Ev'n Pitt, whofe fervent periods roll
Refiftlefs through the kindling foul
Of fenates, councils, kings!

Though form'd for courts, vouchfaf'd to rove
Inglorious, through the fhepherd's grove,
And ope his bashful fprings.

But what can courts difcover more,
Then these rude haunts have feen before,
Each fount and fhady tree?

Have not thefe trees and fountains feen
The pride of courts, the winning mien
Of peerless Aylesbury?

And Grenville, the whose radiant eyes
Have mark'd by flow gradation rife
The princely piles of Stow;

Yet prais'd these unembellish'd woods,
And finil'd to fee the babbling floods
Through felf-worn mazes flow.

Say Dartmouth, who your banks admir'd,
Again beneath your caves retir'd,

Shall grace the pensive shade;
With all the bloom, with all the truth,
With all the fprightlinefs of youth,
By cool reflection fway'd?

Brave, yet humane, fhall Smith appear,
Ye failors, though his name be dear,
Think him not yours alone :

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,
Could I defcribe thy generous breast,
Thy firm, yet pɔlifn'd mind;
How public love adorns thy name,
How fortune too confpires with fame;

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!
Is gay with friends no more.

Away to crowds and cities borne
In queft of joy they steer;
Whilft I, alas! am left forlorn,
To weep the parting year!
O penfive Autumn! how I grieve
Thy forrowing face to fee!
When languid funs are taking leave

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 ;
That speak at once of pleasure past,
And bode approaching pain.

At home unbleft, I gaze around,
My distant scenes require;
Where all in murky vapours drown'd
Are hamlet, hill, and spire.

Though Thomson, sweet descriptive bard!
Infpiring Autumn fung;

Yet how fhould we the months regard,
That ftopp'd his flowing tongue?

Ah lucklefs months, of all the reft,
To whofe hard fhare it fell!

For fure he was the gentleft breast
That ever fung fo well.

And fee, the fwallows now difown
The roofs they lov'd before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown
To glad fome happier fhore.

The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
The sportsman's frantic deed;
While hounds and horns and yells unite
To drown the Mufe's reed.

Ye fields with blighted herbage brown,

Ye fkies no longer blue!

Too much we feel from fortune's frown,
To bear thefe frowns from you.



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;
Not all the vineyard's rich fupplies
Can foothe our forrows more.

He! he is gone, whofe moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine

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He he is gone, whofe focial vein
Surpafs'd the power of wine.

Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise,
In yon fequefter'd grove,

To him a votive urn I raife;

To him, and friendly love.

Yes there, my friend! forlorn and fad,
I grave your Thomson's name;
And there, his lyre; which fate forbad
To found your growing fame.

There fhall my plaintive fong recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe;
And fafter than the dropping fount,
I'll teach mine eyes to flow.

There leaves, in fpite of Autumn green,
Shall fhade the hallow'd ground;
And Spring will there again be seen,

To call forth flowers around.


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