Brief let me be; the fatal ftorm arose;

The billows rag'd, the pilot's art was vain ;
O'er the tall maft the circling furges clofe;
My Jeffy-floats upon the watery plain!
And-fee my youth's impetuous fires decay;
Seek not to stop reflection's bitter tear;
But warn the frolic, and inftruct the gay,
From Jeffy floating on her watery bier!

ODES,

ODES, SONGS, BALLADS, &c.

RURAL ELEGANCE.

An ODE to the late Duchefs of SOMERSET. Written 1750.

W

HILE orient skies reftore the day,
And dew-drops catch the lucid ray;

Amid the sprightly fcenes of morn,
Will aught the Muse inspire'
Oh! Peace to yonder clamorous horn
That drowns the facred lyre!

Ye rural thanes that o'er the moffy down
Some panting, timorous hare pursue;
Does nature mean your joys alone to crown ?
Say, does the smooth her lawns for you?
For ycu does echo bid the rocks reply,

And urg'd by rude constraint refound the jovial cry?

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn
The wretched fwain your sport survey ;

He finds his faithful fences torn,

He finds his labour'd crops a prey;
He fees his flock-no more in circles feed;
Haply beneath your ravage bleed,

And with no random curfes loads the deed.

Nor

Nor yet, ye fwains, conclude

That nature fmiles for you alone;

Your bounded fouls, and your conceptions crude,
The proud, the selfish boast disown:
Yours be the produce of the foil:
O may it ftill reward your toil!

Nor ever the defencelefs train

Of clinging infants afk fupport in vain ?

But though the various harvest gild your plains,
Does the mere landscape feast your eye ?

Or the warm hope of distant gains
Far other cause of glee fupply?
Is not the red-streak's future juice
The fource of your delight profound,
Where Ariconium pours her gems profufe,
Purpling a whole horizon round?

Athirft ye praife the limpid ftream, 'tis true:
But though, the pebbled fhores among,
It mimic no unpleafing fong,

The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.

Unpleas'd ye fee the thickets bloom,
Unpleas'd the fpring her flowery robe refume;
Unmov'd the mountain's airy pile,

The dappled mead without a smile.

O let a rural confcious Mufe,

For well fhe knows, your froward fenfe accufe: Forth to the folemn oak you bring the square, And span the maffy trunk, before you cry, 'tis fair.

Nor

Nor yet ye learn'd, nor yet ye courtly train,
If haply from your haunts ye stray
To wafte with us a fummer's day.
Exclude the taste of every fwain,
Nor our untutor'd fenfe difdain:
'Tis nature only gives exclufive right
To relish her fupreme delight;

She, where the pleases kind or coy,
Who furnishes the scene, and forms us to enjoy.
Then hither bring the fair ingenuous mind,
By her aufpicious aid refin’d;

Lo! not an hedge-row hawthorn blows,
Or humble hare-bell paints the plain,
Or valley winds, or fountain flows,
Or purple heath is ting'd in vain :
For fuch the rivers dash the foaming tides,
The mountain fwells, the dale fubfides;

Ev'n thriftless furze detains their wandering fight,

And the rough barren rock grows pregnant with delight.

With what fufpicious fearful care

The fordid wretch fecures his claim,

If haply fome luxurious heir

Should alienate the fields that wear his name!

What fcruples left fome future birth

Should litigate a span of earth!

Bonds, contracts, feoffments, names unmeet for profe,
The towering Muse endures not to disclose;

Alas! her unrevers'd decree,

More comprehenfive and more free,

Her lavish charter, tafte, appropriates all we fee.

Let gondolas their painted flags unfold,
And be the folemn day enroll'd,
When, to confirm his lofty plea,
In nuptial fort, with bridal gold,
The
grave Venetian weds the fea:

Each laughing Mufe derides the vow;

Ev'n Adria fcorns the mock embrace,
To fome lone hermit on the mountain's brow,
Allotted, from his natal hour,
With all her myrtle shores in dower.
His breast to admiration prone
Enjoys the finile upon her face,

Enjoys trinmphant every grace,
And finds her more his own.

Fatigu'd with form's oppreffive laws,
When Somerset avoids the great;
When, cloy'd with merited applause,
She feeks the rural calm retreat;
Does the not praise each moffy cell,
And feel the truth my numbers tell?
When deafen'd by the loud acclaim,
Which genius grac'd with rank obtains,
Could the not more delighted hear
Yon throftle chaunt the rifing year?
Could the not fpurn the wreaths of fame,
To crop the primrose of the plains?

Does the not sweets in each fair valley find,
Loft to the fons of power, unknown to half mankind?

Ah, can fhe covet there to fee

The fplendid flaves, the reptile race,

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