For though the flowers are still the fame,
To me they languish, or improve,
And plainly tell me that I love.
Imitated from the French,
VES, thefe are the fcenes where with Iris I ftray'd
But short was her fway for fo lovely a maid!
In the bloom of her youth to a cloyster fhe run;
In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun !
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove
So fatal to beauty, fo killing to love!
Yes, these are the meadows, the fhrubs, and the plains;
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my pains;
How many foft moments I spent in this grove!
How fair was my nymph! and how fervent my love!
Be ftill though, my heart! thine emotion give o'er ;
Remember, the feafon of love is no more.
With her how I ftray'd amid fountains and bowers,
Or loiter'd behind and collected the flowers!
Then breathless with ardor my fair-one purfued,
And to think with what kindness my garland she view'd!
But be ftill, my fond heart! this emotion give o'er !
Fain would't thou forget thou must love her no more.
HEN firft, Philander, firft I came
Where Avon rolls his winding stream, The nymphs-how brifk! the fwains-how gay! To fee Afteria, Queen of May!
The parfons round, her praises fung!
The steeples, with her praises rung!
I thought-no fight, that e'er was feen,
Could match the fight of Barel's-green!
But now, fince old Eugenio dy'd—
The chief of poets, and the pride-
Now, meaner bards in vain aspire
To raife their voice, to tune their lyre!
Their lovely feafon, now, is o'er!
Thy notes, Florelio, please no more!
No more Afteria's fmiles are feen!
Adieu!the fweets of Barel's-green!
WHY o'er the verdant banks of Ooze
Does yonder halcyon speed so fast?
'Tis all because she would not lofe
Her favourite calm that will not laft.
The fun with azure paints the skies,
The ftream reflects each flowery spray:
And frugal of her time the flies
To take her fill of love and play.
See her, when rugged Boreas blows,
Warm in fome rocky cell remain;
To feek for pleasure, well fhe knows,
Would only then enhance the pain.
Defcend, the cries, thou hated shower,
Deform my limpid waves to-day,
For I have chofe a fairer hour
To take my fill of love and play.
You too, my Silvia, fure will own
Life's azure feasons swiftly roll:
And when our youth or health is flown,
To think of love but fhocks the foul.
Could Damon but deferve thy charms,
As thou art Damon's only theme;
He'd fly as quick to Delia's arms,
As yonder halcyon skims the stream
dear Lucio is to me,
my
So well our minds and tempers blend';;
That feafons may for ever flee,
And ne'er divide me from my friend;
But let the favour'd boy forbear
To tempt with love my only fair
O Lycon, born when every Muse,
When every Grace benignant finil'd,
When all a parent's breast could chufe
To blefs her lov'd, her only child :
'Tis thine, fo richly grac'd, to prove More noble cares, than cares of love. Together we from early youth
Have trod the flowery tracks of time, Together mus'd in fearch of truth,
O'er learned fage, or bard fublime;
And well thy cultur'd breast I know,
What wonderous treafure it can fhow..
Come then, refume thy charming lyre,.
And fing fome patriot's worth fublime,
Whilft I in fields of foft defire
Confume my fair and fruitlefs prime
Whose reed aspires but to display
The flame that burns me night and day..
O come! the dryads of the woods
Shall daily foothe thy ftudious mind,
The blue-ey'd nymphs of yonder floods
Shall meet and court thee to be kind;
And Fame fits liftening for thy lays
To fwell her trump with Lucio's praife.
Like me, the ployer fondly tries
To lure the sportsmen from her neft,
And fluttering on with anxious cries,
Too plainly fhews her tortur'd breast:
O let him, confcious of her care,
Pity her pains, and learn to fpare.
To the Honourable Sir RICHARD LYTTELTON.
HE moru difpens'd a dubious light,
A fullen mist had ftol'n from fight
Each pleafing vale and hill;
When Damon left his humble bowers,
To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers,
Or check his wandering rill,
Though school'd from fortune's paths to fly
The fwain beneath each lowering sky,
Would oft his fate bemoan;
That he in fylvan fhades, forlorn
Muft wafte his carelefs ev'n and morn
Nor prais'd, nor lov'd, nor known.
No friend to fame's obftreperous noise,
Yet to the whispers of her voice,
Soft murmuring, not a foe:
The pleasures he through choice declin'd
When gloomy fogs deprefs'd his mind,.
It griev'd him to forego.
Griev'd him to lurk the lakes befide,
Where coots in rushy dingles hide,.
And moorcocks fhun the day;
While caitiff bitterns, undifinay'd,
Remark the fwain's familiar fhade,
And fcorn to quit their prey.
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