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The

ROBIN: An ELEGY.

Written at the clofe of Autumn, 1756.

By the Same.

Come, thou melancholy Mufe,

With folemn dirge affift my ftrain, While fhades descend, and weeping dews, In forrows wrap the rural plain.

Her mantle grave cool Evening fpreads,
The Sun cuts fhort his joyful race;
The jocund hills, the laughing meads,
Put on a fickening, dying face.

Stern Winter brings his gloomy train,
Each pleafing landskip fades from view;

In folemn ftate he fhuts the fcene,

To flow'ry fields we bid adieu!

Quite ftript of every beauty, fee

How foon fair Nature's honours fade!

The flowers are fled, each spreading tree.

No more affords a grateful fhade.

Their naked branches now behold,

T

Bicak winds pierce thro' with murmuring found; Chill'd by the northern breezes cold,

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So man, who treads life's active stage,
Like leaf or bloffom fades away;
In tender youth, or riper age,
Drops thus, into his native clay!

Alas! and can we chufe but moan,
To fee all Nature's charms expire!
Fair-blooming Spring, gay Summer gone,
And Autumn haftening to retire !

But fee the tender Redbreast comes,
Forfaking now the leaflefs grove,
Hops o'er my threshold, pecks my crumbs,
And courts my hofpitable love.

Then fooths me with his plaintive tale
As Sol withdraws his friendly ray;
Cheering, as evening fhades prevail,
The foft remains of clofing day.

O welcome to my homely board!
There unmolefted fhalt thou ftand;
Were it with choiceft dainties ftor'd,
For thee I'd ope a liberal hand.

Since thou, of all the warbling throng,
Who now in filence far retire,
Remain'ft to footh me with a fong,

And many a pleafing thought infpire.

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EPITAPH.

By the fame.

F e'er fharp forrow from thine eyes did flow,
If e'er thy bofom felt another's woe,

If e'er fair beauty's charms thy heart did prove,
If e'er the offspring of thy virtuous love
Bloom'd to thy wish, or to thy foul was dear,
This plaintive marble asks thee for a tear!
For here, alas! too early fnatch'd away,
All that was lovely Death has made his prey.
No more her cheeks with crimson roses vie,
No more the diamond sparkles in her eye;
Her breath no more its balmy sweets can boast,
Alas! that breath with all its fweets is loft.
Pale now thofe lips, where blufhing rubies hung,
And mute the charming music of her tongue!
Ye virgins fair, your fading charms furvey,
She was whate'er your tender hearts can say ;
To her sweet memory for ever dear,
Let the green turf receive your trickling tear.
To this fad place your earliest garlands bring,
And deck her grave with firftlings of the Spring.

Let

Let opening rofes, drooping lillies tell,

Like thofe fhe bloom'd, and ah! like these fhe fell.
In circling wreaths let the pale ivy grow,
And distant yews a fable shade bestow;
Round her, ye Graces, constant vigils keep,
And guard (fair Innocence !) her facred fleep :
Fill that bright morn shall wake the beauteous clay,
To bloom and sparkle in eternal day.

fœËEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDEE

UT PICTURA POESIS.

By Mr. NOURSE, late of All-Souls College Oxon, 1741.

AS once the Mufe, reclining on her lyre,

Obferv'd her fav'rite bards, a num'rous choir; The conscious pleasure swell'd her filent breast, ler fecret pride exulting smiles confeft.

When thus her fifter spoke, whofe care prefides Y'er the mixt pallat, and the pencil guides, aft, Goddess, is thy joy, thy train, we own, Approaches nearest to Apollo's throne. oremoft in Learning's ranks they fit fublime, Konour'd and lov'd thro' every age of time: et let me fay, fome fav'rite son of mine Ias more than follow'd every son of thine. Thy Homer needs not grieve to hear his fame xceeds not Raphael's widely honour'd name:

Raphael

Raphael like him 'midft ages wrapt in night,
Rofe father of his fcience to the light;
With matchless grace, and majesty divine,
Bade Painting breathe, and live the bold defign;
To the clay-man the heavenly fire apply'd,
And gave it charms to Nature's felf deny'd.
With judgment, genius, industry and art,
Does Virgil captivate his reader's heart?
With rival talents my Caracci bleft
Fires with like transport the spectator's breast.
The youthful Lucan, who with rapid force
Urg'd by Pharfalia's field the Mufe's horse,
An equal fire, an equal ftrength of mind,
In Angelo's congenial foul will find:
Whofe wild imagination could display

Fierce giants whirl'd from heaven-the world's last day.
With more fuccefs does tender Ovid move

The melting foul to foftness and to love;

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Than wanton Titian, whose warm colours fhew
That gods themselves the amorous riot know?
Thy grandeur, Paulo, and thy happy stroke,
I proudly own my emulation spoke,
For I beftow'd them, that the world might fee,
A Horace too of mine arife in thee.

Lo! where Pouffin his magic colours fpreads,
Rife tower'd towns, rough rocks, and flow'ry meads :
What leagues between thofe azure mountains lie,

(Whofe lefs'ning tops invade the purple sky).

An

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