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The ROBIN: An ELEGY.
Written at the close of Autumn, 1756.
By the Same.
Come, thou melancholy Muse,
With solemn dirge affist my strain, While shades descend, and weeping dews,
In forrows wrap the rural plain,
Her mantle grave cool Evening spreads,
The Sun cuts short his joyful race; The jocund hills, the laughing meads,
Put on a fickening, dying face.
Stern Winter brings his gloomy train,
Each pleasing landskip fades from view; In folemn state he shuts the scene,
To flow'ry fields we bid adicu !
Quite stript of every beauty, see
How foon fair Nature's honours fade! The flowers are fled, each spreading tree
No more affords a grateful shade,
Thcir naked branches now behold,
Bicak winds pierce thro' with murmuring found;
So man, who treads life's active stage,
Like leaf or blossom fades away ; In tender youth, or riper age,
Drops thus, into his native clay!
Alas! and can we chuse but moan,
To see all Nature's charms' expire !
And Autumn hastening to retire !
But fee the tender Redbreast comes,
Forsaking now the leafless grove,
And courts my hospitable love.
Then fooths me with his plaintive tale
As Sol withdraws his friendly ray; Cheering, as evening fhades prevail,
The soft remains of closing day.
welcome to my homely board !
There unmolested shalt thou stand ; Were it with choicest daintics stor'd,
For thee I'd ope a liberal hand.
Since thou, of all the warbling throng,
Who now in filence far retire, Remain'st to footh me with a song,
And many a pleasing thought inspire.
e'er sharp forrow from thine eyes did flow, .
If e'er thy bosom felt another's woe,
Let opening roses, drooping lillies tell,
By Mr. Nourse, late of All Souls College Oxon, 1741.
S once the Mufe, reclining on her lyre,
, Observ'd her fav’rite bards, a num'rous choir ; che conscious pleasure swelld her filent breast, Ier secret pride exulting smiles confeft.
When thus her sister spoke, whose care presides. V'er the mixt pallat, and the pencil guides, uft, Goddess, is thy joy, thy train, we own, pproaches nearest to Apollo's throne. oremost in Learning's ranks they fit fublime, fonour'd and lov'd thro' every age of time: et let me fay, some fav’rite son of mine las more than follow'd every son of thine. ?hy Homer needs not grieve to hear his fame xceeds not Raphael's widely honour'd name:
Raphael like him ʼmidst ages wrapt in night,
With judgment, genius, industry and art,
With more success does tender Ovid move
Lo! where Poulin his magic colours spreads,