FROM THOMSON'S SPRING.

THESE are the sacred feelings of thy heart,
Thy heart inform'd by reason's purer ray,
O LYTTLETON, the friend!-thy passions thus
And meditations vary, as at large,
Courting the Muse, through Hagley-Park
stray'st,

thou

Thy British Tempé.-Thence abstracted oft,
You wander through the philosophic world;
Where in bright train continual wonders rise,
Or to the curious or the pious eye.
And oft conducted by historic Truth,
You tread the long extent of backward time:
Planning with warm benevolence of mind,
And honest zeal unwarp'd by party-rage,
Britannia's weal: how from the venal gulf
To raise her virtue and her arts revive.
Or, turning thence thy view, these graver thoughts
The Muses charm: while, with sure taste refined,
You draw th' inspiring breath of ancient song;
Till nobly rises, emulous, thy own.

FROM LOFFT'S PRAISES OF POETRY.

His faithful lyre no giddy passion moved, Nor the light sallies of inconstant youth; But conjugal affection unreproved, Tribute to dear regret and holy truth.

Whose true politeness temper'd manly sense: Whom Slander's poisonous arrows fear'd to strike Scatter'd at random o'er the world alike:

Whose chastest thought shunn'd all unjust offence;
All wantonness of cruelty;

All wrong to honour, virtue, decency:
His eloquence not idly blazed,
Nor falsely dazzled, daringly amazed,
Champion of fraud and of impiety;
But lighten'd history; and nobly rose
True to his GoD and SAVIOUR; dared oppose
An age profane, and impious raillery:
Whose life condemn'd, whose tranquil death
Gave witness, to his latest breath,

How impotent to his, their vain philosophy.

Bounteous he was; yet Avarice dared not blame.
Frugal; yet Folly could not call him mean:
Virtue he sought, and reap'd uncourted fame
In ease not idle; and in storms serene.
All-honour'd LYTTLETON! thy worth,
While any live true merit to revere,
Like a pure stream of light,

Left here behind in thy soul's parting flight,
Shall animate us here,

And shine for ever friendly to mankind.
Should every other breast e'en thee forget,
Yet never should the Muse:

Never could she thy memory quit;
Never to Virtue's call her aid refuse:
But still she should restore to fame

Thy much-loved image, and revive thy name.

⚫ Written about Sept. 1773, on Lord Lyttleton's death.

SOLILOQUY

OF A BEAUTY IN THE COUNTRY.

WRITTEN AT ETON SCHOOL.

'Twas night, and Flavia to her room retired,
With evening chat and sober reading tired,
There melancholy, pensive, and alone,
She meditates on the forsaken town;
On her raised arm reclined her drooping head;
She sigh'd, and thus in plaintive accents said:
"Ah! what avails it to be young and fair,
To move with negligence, to dress with care?
What worth have all the charms our pride can
boast,

If all in envious solitude are lost?
Where none admire 'tis useless to excel;
Where none are beaux 'tis vain to be a belle:
Beauty like wit to judges should be shown;

Both most are valued where they best are known.
With every grace of nature or of art

We cannot break one stubborn country heart;
The brutes insensible our power defy:
To love exceeds a squire's capacity.

The town, the court, is Beauty's proper sphere:
That is our heaven, and we are angels there:
In that gay circle thousand Cupids rove;
The court of Britain is the court of Love.
How has my conscious heart with triumph giow'd,
How has my sparkling eyes their transport show'd,
At each distinguish'd birthnight ball to see
The homage due to empire paid to me?
When every eye was fix'd on me alone,
And dreaded mine more than the monarch's frown;
When rival statesmen for my favour strove,
Less jealous in their power than in their love.
Changed is the scene, and all my glories die,
Like flowers transplanted to a colder sky;
Lost is the dear delight of giving pain,
The tyrant joy of hearing slaves complain.
In stupid indolence my life is spent,
Supinely calm and dully innocent:
Unblest I wear my useless time away,

While yet thy Muse, content with humbler praise,
Warbled in Windsor's grove her Sylvan lays,
Though now sublimely borne on Homer's wing
Of glorious wars and godlike chiefs she sing,
Wilt thou with me revisit once again
The crystal fountain and the flowery plain?
Wilt thou indulgent hear my verse relate
The various changes of a lover's state,
And while each turn of passion I pursue,
Ask thy own heart if what I tell be true?
To the green margin of a lonely wood
Whose pendent shades o'erlook'd a silver flood,
Young Damon came, unknowing where he stray'd,
Full of the image of the beauteous maid
His flock far off unfed, untended lay,
To ev'ry savage a defenceless prey;
No sense of interest could their master move,
And every care seem'd trifling now but love:
Awhile in pensive silence he remain'd,
But though his voice was mute his looks com-
plain'd;

At length the thoughts within his bosom pent
Forced his unwilling tongue to give them vent.
"Ye nymphs!" he cried, "ye Dryads! who so
long

Have favour'd Damon and inspired his song,
For whom retired I shun the gay resorts
Of sportful cities and of pompous courts,
In vain I bid the restless world adieu,
To seek tranquillity and peace with you.
Though wild Ambition and destructive Rage
No factions here can form, no wars can wage,
Though Envy frowns not on your humble shades,
Nor Calumny your innocence invades,
Yet cruel Love, that troubler of the breast,
Too often violates your boasted rest;
With inbred storms disturbs your calm retreat,
And taints with bitterness each rural sweet.

"Ah luckless day! when first with fond surprise
On Delia's face I fix'd my eager eyes,
Then in wild tumults all my soul was tost,
Then reason, liberty, at once were lost,
And every wish, and thought, and care was gone,
But what my heart employ'd on her alone.

day,

Go at set hours to dinner and to prayer,
For dulness ever must be regular:

Now with mamma at tedious whist I play,
Now without scandal drink insipid tea,

Or in the garden breathe the country air,
Secure from meeting any tempter there.
From books to work from work to books I rove,
And am, alas! at leisure to improve.

Is this the life a beauty ought to lead ?
Were eyes so radiant only made to read?

Those lovely children of Content and Joy?
How can soft pleasure and tormenting woe
From the same spring at the same moment flow?
Unhappy boy! these vain inquiries cease,

Thought could not guard nor will restore thy

peace;

Are these of use for nothing but to sew?
Sure erring nature never could design
To form a housewife in a mould like mine!
O Venus! queen and guardian of the fair,
Attend propitious to thy votary's prayer;
Let me revisit the dear town again,
Let me be seen! Could I that wish obtain,
All other wishes my own power would gain."

If on the green we danced a mirthful band,
To me alone she gave her willing hand;
Her partial taste if e'er I touch'd the lyre
Still in my song found something to admire;
By none but her my crook with flowers was crown'd,
By none but her my brows with ivy bound;
The world that Damon was her choice believed,
The world, alas! like Damon was deceived.
When last I saw her, and declared my tire
In words as soft as passion could inspire,
Coldly she heard, and full of scorn withdrew,
Without one pitying glance, one sweet adieu.
The frighted Lind who sees his ripen'd corn
Up from the roots by sudden tempest torn,
Whose fairest hopes destroy'd and blasted lie,
Feels not so keen a pang of grief as I.
Ah! how have I deserved, inhuman maid!
To have my faithful service thus repaid?
Were all the marks of kindness I received
But dreams of joy that charm'd me and deceived?

Or did you only nurse my growing love
That with more pain I might your hatred prove?
Sure guilty treachery no place could find
In such a gentle, such a generous mind;

A maid brought up the woods and wilds among
Could ne'er have learnt the arts of courts so young:
No; let me rather think her anger feign'd,
Still let me hope my Delia may be gain'd;
'Twas only modesty that seem'd disdain,
And her heart suffer'd when she gave me pain."
Pleased with this flattering thought, the love-
sick boy

Felt the faint dawning of a doubtful joy,
Back to his flock more cheerful he return'd
When now the setting sun more fiercely burn'd,
Blue vapours rose along the mazy rills,

And Light's last blushes tinged the distant hills.

HOPE. ECLOGUE II.

TO MR. DODDINGTON.

Afterwards Lord Melcombe Regis.

HEAR, Doddington! the notes that shepherds sing,
Like those that warbling hail the genial spring:
Nor Pan nor Phoebus tunes our artless reeds,
From Love alone their melody proceeds;
From Love Theocritus on Enna's plains
Learnt the wild sweetness of his Doric strains;
Young Maro touch'd by his inspiring dart
Could charm each ear, and soften every heart;
Me too his power has reach'd, and bids with thine
My rustic pipe in pleasing concert join.

Damon no longer sought the silent shade,
No more in unfrequented paths he stray'd,
But call'd the swains to hear his jocund song,
And told his joy to all the rural throng.

"Blest be the hour," he said, "that happy hour,
When first I own'd my Delia's gentle power!
Then gloomy discontent and pining care
Forsook my breast, and left soft wishes there;
Soft wishes there they left and gay desires,
Delightful languors and transporting fires.
Where yonder limes combine to form a shade
These eyes first gazed upon the charming maid;
There she appear'd on that auspicious day
When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay:
She led the dance-Heavens with what grace
she moved!

Who could have seen her then and not have loved?
I strove not to resist so sweet a flame,
But gloried in a happy captive's name,
Nor would I now, could Love permit, be free,
But leave to brutes their savage liberty.

"And art thou then, fond youth! secure of joy?
Can no reverse thy flattering bliss destroy?
Has treacherous Love no torment yet in store?
Or hast thou never proved his fatal power?
Whence flow'd those tears that late bedew'd thy

cheek?

Why sigh'd the heart as if it strove to break?
Why were the desert rocks invoked to hear
The plaintive accent of thy sad despair?
From Delia's rigour all those pains arose,
Delia! who now compassionates my woes,
Who bids me hope, and in that charming word
Has peace and transport to my soul restored.

"Begin, my pipe! begin the gladsome lay,
A kiss from Delia shall thy music pay,
A kiss obtain❜d 'twixt struggling and consent,
Given with forced anger and disguised content.
No laureat wreaths I ask to bind my brows
Such as the muse on lofty bards bestows;
Let other swains to praise or fame aspire,
I from her lips my recompence require.

"Why stays my Delia in her secret bower? Light gales have chased the late impending shower, Th' emerging sun more bright his beams extends, Opposed its beauteous arch the rainbow bends, Glad youths and maidens turn the new-made hay, The birds renew their songs on every spray;

Mr. Doddington had written some very pretty love verses which have never been published Lykleton.

Come forth, my love! thy shepherd's joys to crown: All nature smiles-will only Delia frown!

"Hark how the bees with murmurs fill the plain While every flower of every sweet they drain; See how beneath yon hillock's shady steep The shelter'd herds on flowery couches sleep: Nor bees nor herds are half so bless'd as I, If with my fond desires my love comply; From Delia's lips a sweeter honey flows, And on her bosom dwells more soft repose.

"Ah how, my dear! shall I deserve thy charms?
What gift can bribe thee to my longing arms?
A bird for thee in silken bands 1 hold,
Whose yellow plumage shines like polish'd gold;
From distant isles the lovely stranger came,
And bears the fortunate Canaries' name;
In all our woods none boast so sweet a note,
Not e'en the nightingale's melodious throat;
Accept of this, and could I add beside
What wealth the rich Peruvian mountains hide,
If all the gems in eastern rocks were mine,
On thee alone their glittering pride should shine:
But if thy mind no gifts have power to move,
Phoebus himself shall leave th' Aonian grove;
The tuneful nine, who never sue in vain,
Shall come sweet suppliants for their favourite
swain:

For him each blue-eyed Naiad of the flood,
For him each green hair'd sister of the wood,
Whom oft beneath fair Cynthia's gentle ray
His music calls to dance the night away.
And you, fair nymphs! companions of my love,
With whom she joys the cowslip meads to rove,
I beg you recommend my faithful flame,
And let her often hear her shepherd's name:
Shade all my faults from her inquiring sight,
And show my merits in the fairest light;
My pipe your kind assistance shall repay,
And every friend shall claim a different lay.
"But see! in yonder glade the heavenly fair
Enjoys the fragrance of the breezy air.
Ah thither let me fly with eager feet:
Adieu, my pipe! I go my love to meet.
O may I find her as we parted last,

And may each future hour be like the past!
So shall the whitest lamb these pastures feed,
Propitious Venus! on thy altars bleed."

JEALOUSY. ECLOGUE III.

TO MR. EDWARD WALPOLE.

THE gods, O Walpole! give no bliss sincere,
Wealth is disturb'd by care and power by fear.
Of all the passions that employ the mind
In gentle love the sweetest joys we find,
Yet e'en those joys dire jealousy molests,
And blackens each fair image in our breasts.
O may the warmth of thy too tender heart
Ne'er feel the sharpness of his venom'd dart!
For thy own quiet think thy mistress just,
And wisely take thy happiness on trust.

Begin, my Muse! and Damon's woes rehearse
In wildest numbers and disorder'd verse.
On a romantic mountain's airy head
(While browzing goats at ease around him fed)
Anxious he lay, with jealous care oppress'd,
Distrust and anger labouring in his breast,-
The vale beneath a pleasing prospect yields
Of verdant meads and cultivated fields;
Through these a river rolls its winding flood,
Adorn'd with various tufts of rising wood;
Here half concealed in trees a cottage stands,
A castle there the opening plain commands;
Beyond a town with glittering spires is crown'd,
And distant hills the wide horizon bound.
So charming was the scene, a while the swain
Beheld delighted, and forgot his pain,
But soon the stings infix'd within his heart
With cruel force renew'd their raging smart:
His flowery wreath which long with pride he wore,
The gift of Delia, from his brows he tore,
Then cried:-"May all thy charms, ungrateful

Maid!

Like these neglected roses droop and fade! May angry heaven deform each guilty grace That triumphs now in that deluding face! Those alter'd looks may every shepherd fly, And even thy Daphnis hate thee worse than I!

"Say, thou Inconstant! what has Damon done
To lose the heart his tedious pains had won?
Tell me what charms you in my rival find
Against whose power no ties have strength to bind?
Has he like me with long obedience strove
To conquer your disdain, and merit love?
Has he with transport every smile adored,
And died with grief at each ungentle word?
Ah, no! the conquest was obtain'd with ease;
He pleased you by not studying to please;
His careless indolence your pride alarm'd,
And had he loved you more he less had charm'd
"O pain to think another shall possess
Those balmy lips which I was wont to press !
Another on her panting breast shall lie,
And catch sweet madness from her swimming eye!
I saw their friendly flocks together feed,
I saw them hand in hand walk o'er the mead;
Would my closed eye had sunk in endless night
Ere I was doom'd to bear that hateful sight!
Where'er they pass'd he blasted every flower,
And hungry wolves their helpless flocks devour!-
Ah, wretched swain! could no examples move
Thy heedless heart to shun the rage of love?
Hast thou not heard how poor Menalcas died
A victim to Parthenia's fatal pride?
Dear was the youth to all the tuneful plain,
Loved by the nymphs, by Phoebus loved in vain:
Around his tomb their tears the Muses paid,
And all things mourn'd but the relentless maid,
Would I could die like him and be at peace;
These torments in the quiet grave would cease;
There my vex'd thoughts a calm repose would find,
And rest as if my Delia still were kina.
No; let me live her falsehood to upbraid;
Some god perhaps my just revenge will aid.-
Alas! what aid, fond swain, would thou receive?
Could thy heart bear to see its Delia grieve?
Protect her heaven! and let her never know
The slightest part of hapless Damon's woe:
I ask no vengeance from the powers above,
All I implore is never more to love,-
Let me this fondness from my bosom tear,
Let me forget that e'er I thought her fair
Come, cool indifference! and heal my breast!
Wearied at length I seek the downy rest:
No turbulence of passion shall destroy
My future ease with flattering hopes of joy.
Hear, mighty Pan! and all ye Sylvans! hear
What by your guardian deities I swear;
No more my eyes shall view her fatal charms,
No more I'll court the traitoress to my arms!
Not all her arts my steady soul shall move,
And she shall find that reason conquers love!
Scarce had he spoke when through the lawn
below

Alone he saw the beauteous Delia go;
At once transported he forgot his vow,
(Such perjuries the laughing gods allow !)

Down the steep hills with ardent haste he flew :
He found her kind, and soon believed her true.

With wanton Cupids in that happy shade
The gentle Virtues and mild Wisdom play'd;
Nor there in sprightly Pleasure's genial train
Lurk'd sick disgust or sate repenting Pain,
Nor force nor interest join'd unwilling hands,
But love consenting tied the blissful bands.
Thither with glad devotion Damon came,
To thank the powers who bless'd his faithful flame;
Two milkwhite doves he on their altar laid,
And thus to both his grateful homage paid:
"Hail, bounteous God! before whose hallow'd
My Delia vow'd to be for ever mine, [shrine
While glowing in her cheeks with tender love
Sweet virgin modesty reluctant strove;
And hail to thee fair queen of young desires!
Long shall my heart preserve thy pleasing fires,
Since Delia now can all its warmth return,
As fondly languish and as fiercely burn.

"O the dear bloom of last propitious night!
O shade more charming than the fairest light!
Then in my arms I clasp'd the melting maid,
Then all my pains one moment overpaid;
Then first the sweet excess of bliss I proved,
Which none can taste but who like me have loved.
Thou too, bright Goddess! once in Ida's grove
Didst not disdain to meet a shepherd's love:
With him while frisking lambs around you play'd,
Conceal'd you sported in the secret shade:
Scarce could Anchises' raptures equal mine,
And Delia's beauties only yield to thine.

"What are ye now my once most valued joys? Insipid trifles all and childish toys.Friendship itself ne'er knew a charm like this, Nor Colin's talk could please like Delia's kiss.

"Ye Muses, skill'd in every winning art, Teach me more deeply to engage her heart: Ye nymphs! to her your freshest roses bring, And crown her with the pride of all the spring; On all her days let health and peace attend; May she ne'er want nor ever lose a friend! May some new pleasure every hour employ, But let her Damon be her highest joy!

"With thee, my Love! for ever will I stay, All night caress thee, and admire all day; In the same field our mingled flocks well feed, To the same spring our thirsty heifers lead; Together will we share the harvest toils, Together press the vine's autumnal spoils. Delightful state! where Peace and Love combine, To bid our tranquil days unclouded shine! Here limpid fountains roll through flowery meads, Here rising forests lift their verdant heads, Here let me wear my careless life away, And in thy arms insensibly decay.

"When late old age our heads shall silver o'er, And our slow pulses dance with joy no more, When time no longer will thy beauties spare, And only Damon's eye shall think thee fair, Then may the gentle hand of welcome death At one soft stroke deprive us both of breath! May we beneath one common stone be laid, And the same cypress both our ashes shade Perhaps some friendly Muse in tender verse Shall deign our faithful passion to rehearse, And future ages with just envy moved Be told how Damon and his Delia loved."

BLENHEIM.

WRITTEN AT THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD,
In the Year 1727.

PARENT of Arts! whose skilful hand first taught
The towering pile to rise, and form'd the plan
With fair proportion, Architect divine !
Minerva ! thee to my adventurous lyre
Assistant I invoke, that means to sing
Blenheim, proud monunient of British fame,
Thy glorious work! for thou the lofty towers
Didst to his virtue raise whom oft thy shield
In peril guarded, and thy wisdom steer'd
Through all the storms of war.-Thee too I call
Thalia! sylvan Muse, who lovest to rove
Along the shady paths and verdant bowers
Of Woodstock's happy grove, there tuning sweet
Thy rural pipe, while all the Dryad train
Attentive listen, let thy warbling song

Paint with melodious praise the pleasing scene,
And equal these to Pindus' honour'd shades.