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“ Enough to rear such rustic lays
“ As foes may flight, but partial friends will praise.”

The gentle Air allow'd my claim;
And, more to chear my drooping frame,
She mix'd the balm of op'ning flowers ;
Such as the bee, with chymic powers,
From Hybla's fragrant hill inhales,

Or scent Sabea's blooming vales.
But ah! the Nymphs that heal the pensive inind,

By prescripts more refin’d,

Neglect their votary's anxious moan:
Oh, how should They relieve the Mufes all were flown. (

By flowery plain, or woodland shades,
I fondly fought the charming maids;
By woodland shades, or flow'ry plain,
I fought them, faithless maids ! in vain !

When lo! in happier hour,
I leave behind my native mead,
To range where zeal and friendship lead,

To visit *****'s honor'd bower.
Ah foolish man! to seek the tuneful maids
On other plains, or near less verdant hades ;

Scarce have my footsteps press'd the favor'd ground,

When founds etherial ftrike my car ;
At once celestial forms appear;
My fugitives are found !


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The Muses here attune their lyres,
Ah partial! with unwonted fires ;
Here, hand in hand, with careless mien,
The sportive Graces trip the green.

But whilft I wander'd o'er a scene fo fair,

Too well at one survey I trace,
How every Muse, 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 ttore,
Falls not a plume on India's diftant plain,

Glows not a fhell on Adria's rocky shore,
But torn methought from native lands or feas,
From their arrangement, gain fresh pow'r to please.

And some had bent the wildering maze,

Bedeckt with every shrub that blows;
And some 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,

Aflign'd the laureld bust a place,
And given to learning all the pomp of show,

And now from every talk withdrawn,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


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Ah! woe is me, faid I;
And ***'s hilly circuit heard me cry,
Have I for this, with labour ftrove,
And lavish'd all


little store To fence for you my shady grove,

And scollop every winding shore ;
And fringe with every purple rose,
The saphire stream that down my valley flows?

Ah! lovely treacherous maids !
To quit unseen my votive shades,
When pale disease, and torturing pain
Had torn me from the breezy plain,
And to a restless couch confin'd,
Who ne'er your wonted tasks declin'd.
She needs not your officious aid
To swell the songy or plan the shade ;

By genuine Fancy fir'd,
Her native Genius guides her hand,
And while she marks the fage command,
More lovely scenes her skill shall raise,
Her lyre resound with nobler lays

Than ever you inspir'd.
Thus I my'rage and grief display;
But vainly blame, and vainly mourn,
Nor will a Grace or Muse return

Till LUXBOROUGH lead the way.


A N ACRE ON TIC, 1738.


By the Same.
WAS in a cool Aonian glade,

The wanton Cupid, spent with toil,
Had fought refreshment from the shade;

And stretch'd him on the mosly foil.
A vagrant Muse drew nigh, and found

The subtle traitor fast asleep; And is it thine to fnore profound,

She said, yet leave the world to weep i But hush - from this auspicious hour,

The world, I ween, may rest in peace;
And robb'd of darts, and stript of pow'r,

Thy peevish petulance decrease.
Sleep on, poor child! whilft I withdraw,

And this thy vile artillery hide
When the Caftalian fount she saw,

And plung’d his arrows in the tide. That magic fount-ill-judging maid ! Shall cause

you foon to curse the day You dar'd the shafts of Love invade; And

gave his arms redoubled sway. For, in a stream fo wonderous clear,

When angry Cupid searches round, Will not the radiant points appear? Will not the furtive spoils be fount?

C с



Too foon they were; and every dart,

Dipt in the Muse's myftic spring,
Acquir'd new force to wound the heart;

And taught at once to love and sing.
Then farewell ye Pierian quire;
For who will now your

altars throng?
From Love we learn to swell the lyre ;

And Echo asks no sweeter song.

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’T "That love Wurp'd his airy throne,

WAS not by beauty's aid alone.

That love
His boasted power display'd :
STis kindness that secures his aim,
"Tis hope that feeds the kindling flame,

Which beauty first convey'd.
In Clara's eyes, the lightnings view;
Her lips with all the rose's hue

Have all its sweets combin'd;
Yet vain the blush, and faint the fire,
"Till lips at once, and eyes conspire
To prove the charmer kind

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