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

And GRENVILLE, fhe whofe radiant eyes
Have mark'd by flow gradation rife
The princely piles of Srow;
Yet prais'd thefe unembellish'd woods,
And fmil'd to fee the babbling floods
Thro' felf-worn mazes flow.

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

Shall grace the penfive fhade;

With all the bloom, with all the truth,
With all the sprightlinefs of youth,

By cool reflection sway'd?

Brave, yet humane, fhall SMITH appear,
Ye failors, tho' his name be dear,

Think him not yours alone :

Grant him in other fpheres to charm,
The shepherds breasts tho' mild are warm,
And ours are all his own.

O LYTTELTON! my honour'd guest,
Could I defcribe thy generous breast,
Thy firm, yet polish'd mind;
How public love adorns thy name,
How fortune too confpires with fame;

The fong fhould pleafe mankind.

VERSES written towards the clofe of the Year 1748, to WILLIAM LYTTELTON, Efq;

OW blithely pass'd the summer's day!

HOW

How bright was every flow'r!

While friends arriv'd, in circles gay,

To vifit DAMON's bow'r!

But now, with filent ftep, I range
Along fome lonely shore ;

And DAMON's bow'r, 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, hafle; ufurp the sky;

Compleat my bow'r'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.

Tho' THOMSON, fweet defcriptive bard!
Infpiring Autumn fung;

Yet how should we the months regard,
That stopp'd his flowing tongue?

Ah luckless months, of all the reft,
To whofe hard fhare it fell!
For fure he was the gentlest breast
That ever fung fo well.

And fee, the fwallows now disown

The roofs they lov'd before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown
To glad fome happier shore.

The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
The fportfman's frantic deed;

While hounds and horns and yells unite
To drown the mufe's reed.

VOL. I.

M

Ye

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 tho' the vine disclose her dyes,

And boaft her purple store;
Not all the vineyard's rich fupplies
Can foothe our forrows more.

He! he is gone, whofe moral ftrain
Could wit and mirth refine;
He! he is gone, whose focial vein
Surpass'd the pow'r of wine.

Faft by the ftreams he deign'd to praise,

In yon fequefter'd grove,

To him a votive urn I raise;

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.

The

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

There leaves, in fpite of Autumn, green,
Shall hade the hallow'd ground;
And Spring will there again be seen,
To call forth flowers around.

But no kind funs will bid me fhare,
Once more, his focial hour;
Ah Spring! thou never can't repair
This lofs, to DAMON's bow'r.

******

JEM MY DAWSON,

A BALLAD; written about the Time of his

Execution, in the Year 1745.

COM

OME listen to my mournful tale,
Men det hearts and lovers dear,

Nor will you fcorn to heave a figh,
Nor need you blush to fhed a tear.

And thou, dear KITTY, peerlefs maid,
Do thou a penfive ear incline;

For thou canft weep at every woe;
And pity every plaint-but mine,