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 though the vine disclose her dyes,
And boast her purple store;
Not all the vineyard's rich fupplies
Can foothe our forrows more.

He! he is gone, whose moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine;
He he is gone, whose focial vein
Surpass'd the power 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.
There shall my plaintive fong recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe;
And fafter than the dropping fount,
I'll teach mine eyes to flow.

There leaves, in spite of Autumn green,
Shall fhade the hallow'd ground;
And Spring will there again be seen,

To call forth flowers around.

But

But no kind funs will bid me share,

Once more, his focial hour;

Ah Spring! thou never canft repair
This lofs, to Damon's bower.

LOVE

AND

MUSIC.

Written at Oxford, when young.

HALL Love alone for ever claim

SHALL

An univerfal right to fame,

An undifputed fway?

Or has not Mufic equal charms,

To fill the breaft with ftrange alarms,
And make the world obey?

The Thracian Bard, as Poets tell,
Could mitigate the Powers of hell.;
Ev'n Pluto's nicer ear:

His arts, no more than Love's, we find
To deities or men confin'd,

Drew brutes in crouds to hear.

Whatever favourite paffion reign'd,
The Poet ftill his right maintain'd
O'er all that rang'd the plain :
The fiercer tyrants could affwage,
Or fire the timorous into rage,
Whene'er he chang'd the ftrain.

In milder lays the Bard began;
Soft notes through every finger ran,

And

And echoing charm'd the place:

See! fawning lions gaze around,
And, taught to quit their favage found,

Affume a gentler grace.

When Cymon view'd the fair-one's charms,

Her ruby lips, and snowy arms,

And told her beauties o'er:

When love reform'd his awkward tone,
And made each clownish gesture known,
It fhew'd but equal power.

The Bard now tries a sprightlier found,
When all the feather'd race around
Perceive the varied strains;
The foaring lark the note pursues;
The timorous dove around him cooes,
And Philomel complains.

An equal power of Love I 've seen
Incite the deer to fcour the green,

And chace his barking foe.
Sometimes has Love, with greater might,
To challenge-nay-sometimes-to fight
Provok'd th' enamour'd beau.

When Silvia treads the fmiling plain,
How glows the heart of every swain,
By pleafing tumults tost!

When Handel's folemn accents roll,
Each breast is fir'd, each raptur'd soul

In fweet confufion loft.

If the her melting glances dart,
Or he his dying airs impart,

L

Our

Our fpirits fink away.

Enough, enough! dear nymph, give o'er;
And thou, great artist! urge no more
Thy unrefifted fway.

Thus love or found affects the mind:
But when their various powers are join'd,
Fly, daring mortal, fly!

For when Selinda's charms appear,
And I her tuneful accents hear-

I burn, I faint, I die!

'T'

COMPARISON.

IS by comparison we know
On every object to bestow

Its proper fhare of praise:
Did each a like perfection bear,
What beauty, though divinely fair,

Could admiration raise?

Amidst the lucid bands of night,
See! Hefperus, ferenely bright,
Adorns the diftant fkies :
But languishes amidst the blaze
Of sprightly Sol's meridian rays,
Or Silvia's brighter eyes.
Whene'er the nightingale complains,
I like the melancholy strains,

And praise the tuneful bird :

But vainly might she strain her throat,

Vainly exalt each swelling note,

Should Silvia's voice be heard. 4

When

When, on the violet's purple bed,
Supine I reft my weary head,

The fragrant pillow charms :
Yet foon fuch languid blifs I'd fly,
Would Silvia but the loss supply,
And take me to her arms.

The alabafter's wonderous white,
The ma.ble's polish strikes my fight,
When Silvia is not feen:

But ah! how faint that white is

grown, How rough appears the polish'd stone, Compar'd with Silvia's mien!

The rofe, that o'er the Cyprian plains,
With flowers enamel'd, blooming reigns,
With undisputed power,

Plac'd near her cheek's celeftial red,

(Its purple loft, its luftre fled,)

Delights the fenfe no more.

ODE

ΤΟ

CYNTHIA,

N

On the approach of SPRING.

OW in the cowflip's dewy cell

The fairies make their bed,

They hover round the crystal well,
The turf in circles tread.

The lovely linnet now her song

Tunes fweeteft in the wood;

The twittering fwallow skims along
The azure liquid flood.