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Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes;
O George, without a prayer for thee,
My orizons should never close.
The gracious prince that gave him life,
Would crown a never-dying flame;
And every tender babe I bore

Should learn to lifp the giver's name.
But though he should be dragg'd in fcorn
To yonder ignominious tree;
He fhall not want one conftant friend
To fhare the cruel fates' decree.

O then her mourning-coach was call'd,
The fledge mov'd flowly on before;
Though borne in a triumphal car,
She had not lov'd her favourite more.
She follow'd him, prepar'd to view
The terrible behefts of law;
And the laft fcene of Jemmy's woes,
With calm and stedfaft eye she saw.
Distorted was that blooming face,
Which she had fondly lov'd fo long;
And ftifled was that tuneful breath,
Which in her praise had sweetly fung.
And fever'd was that beauteous neck,
Round which her arms had fondly clos'd;
And mangled was that beauteous breast,
On which her love-fick head repos'd :

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And ravish'd was that conftant heart,

She did to every heart prefer;
For though it could its King forget,
'Twas true and loyal ftill to her.
Amid thofe unrelenting flames,

She bore this conftant heart to fee;
But when 'twas moulder'd into duft,
Yet, yet, the cry'd, I follow thee.
My death, my death alone can shew
The pure, the lasting love I bore;
Accept, O heaven! of woes like ours,
And let us, let us weep no more.

The difmal fcene was o'er and past,
The lover's mournful hearse retir'd;
The maid drew back her languid head,
And, fighing forth his name, expir'd.
Though justice ever must prevail,
The tear my Kitty fheds, is due ;
For feldom fhall fhe hear a tale

So fad, fo tender, yet so true.

A Paftoral B ALL AD, in Four Parts. 1743.

"Arbufta humilefque myricæ."

Y

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E fhepherds fo chearful and gay,
Whofe flocks never carelessly roam ;

Should Corydon's happen to ftray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.

VIRG.

Allow

Allow me to mufe and to figh,

Nor talk of the change that ye None once was fo watchful as I ;

find;

I have left my dear Phillis behind.

Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and defire;
What it is to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire.
Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each evening repel;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn :

—I have bade my dear Phillis farewel.

Since Phillis vouchfaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine:
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
I priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are paft, and I figh;

And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.

But why do I languish in vain;
Why wander thus pensively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the fmiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favourite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have ftray'd,
I could wander with pleasure, alone.

When

When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not be fo-
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.
She gaz'd, as I flowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly difcern;
So fweetly fhe bade me adieu,

I thought that fhe bade me return.

The Pilgrim that journeys all day
To vifit fome far-diftant fhrine,
If he bear but a relique away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my folace wherever I go.

II. HOPE.

MY banks they are furnish'd with bees,

Whofe murmur invites one to fleep;

My grottos are fhaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with fheep. I feldom have met with a lofs,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with moss, Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

Not

Not a pine in my grove is there feen,

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a fweet-briar entwines it around.
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think fhe might like to retire
To the bower I have labour'd to rear;
Not a fhrub that I heard her admire,
But I hafted and planted it there.
O how fudden the jeffamine ftrove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, What ftrains of wild melody flow!

How the nightingales warble their loves

From thickets of rofes that blow !
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird fhall harmoniously join
In a concert fo foft and so clear,
As-fhe may not be fond to refign.

I have found out a gift for my fair;

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear,

She will fay 'twas a barbarous deed.

For

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