Lo, DARTMOUTH on those banks reclin'd,
While bufy fancy calls to mind
The glories of his line;
Methinks my cottage rears its head,
The ruin'd walls of yonder fhed,
As thro' enchantment, shine.
But who the nymph that guides their way?
Could ever nymph defcend to stray
From HAGLEY'S fam'd retreat?
Elfe by the blooming features fair,
The faultlefs make, the matchless air,
"Twere CYNTHIA's form compleat.
So would fome tuberose delight,
That ftruck the pilgrim's wondering fight
'Mid lonely defarts drear;
All as at Eve, the fovereign flower
Dispenses round its balmy power,
And crowns the fragant year.
Ah, now no more, the shepherd cry'd,
Must I ambition's charms deride,
Her fubtle force difown;
No more of fawns or fairies dream,
While fancy, near each crystal stream,
Shall paint thefe forms alone.
By low-brow'd rock, or pathless mead,
I deem'd that splendour ne'er should lead
My dazled eyes aftray
But who, alas! will dare contend,
If beauty add, or merit blend
Its more illuftrious ray?
Nor is it long----O plaintive fwain!
Since GUERNSEY faw, without disdain,
Where, hid in woodlands green,
The * partner of his early days,
And once the rival of his praise,
Had ftol'n thro' life unfeen.
Scarce faded is the vernal flower,
Since STAMFORD left his honour'd bower
To fmile familiar here:
O form'd by nature to disclose
How fair that courtesy which flows
From focial warmth fincere.
Nor yet have many moons decay'd,
Since POLLIO fought this lonely shade,
Admir'd this rural maze :
The nobleft breast that virtue fires,
The graces love, the muse inspires,
Might pant for POLLIO's praise.
Say THOMSON here was known to rest,
For him yon vernal seat I drest,
Ah, never to return!
In place of wit, and melting strains,
And focial mirth, it now remains
*They were school-fellows,
Come then, my LELIUS, 'come once more,
And fringe the melancholy shore
With roses and with bays,
While I each wayward fate accuse,
That envy'd his impartial mufe
To fing your early praise.
While PHILO, to whose favour'd fight,
Antiquity, with full delight,
Her inmoft wealth displays;
Beneath yon ruins moulder'd wall
Shall mufe, and with his friend recal!
The pomp of ancient days.
Here too fhall CONWAY's name appear,
He prais'd the ftream fo lovely clear,
That shone the reeds among ;
Yet clearness could it not disclose,
To match the rhetoric that flows
From CONWAY's polish'd tongue.
Ev'n PITT, whofe fervent periods roll
Refiftlefs, thro' the kindling foul
Of fenates, councils, kings!
Tho' form'd for courts, vouchfaf'd to rove Inglorious, thro' the fhepherd's grove, And ope his bafhful springs.
But what can courts discover more,
Than these rude haunts have seen before,
Each fount and fshady tree ?
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 rise
The princely piles of Srow;
Yet prais'd these unembellifh'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 sprightliness of youth,
By cool reflection fway'd?
Brave, yet humane, fhall SMITH appear,
Ye failors, tho' his name be dear,
Think him not yours alone :
Grant him in other spheres to charm,
The fhepherd's 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 please mankind.
VERSES written towards the clofe of the Year 1748, to WILLIAM LYTTELTON, Efq;
'OW blithely pass'd the fummer's day!
H°W How bright was every flow'r!
While friends arriv'd, in circles gay,
To vifit DAMON's bow'r!
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, hafte; ufurp the sky;
Compleat my bow'r's decay.
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