Beneath the British oak's magestic shade,
Shall fee fair truth, immortal maid,
Friendship in artless guife array'd,

Honour and moral beauty fhine

With more attractive charms, with radiance more
divine.

Yes, here alone did highest heaven ordain
The lasting magazine of charms,
Whatever wins, whatever warms,
Whatever fancy feeks to share

The great, the various, and the fair,
For ever fhould remain !

Her impulfe nothing may reftrain-
Or whence the joy 'mid columns, towers,
'Midst all the city's artful trim,
To rear fome breathlefs vapid flowers
Or fhrubs fuliginously grim:
From rooms of filken foliage vain,
To trace the dun far distant grove,
Where, smit with undiffembled pain,
The wood-lark mourns her abfent love,
Borne to the dusty town from native air,
To mimic rural life, and foothe fome vapour'd fair.

But how must faithless art prevail,
Should all who taste our joy fincere,
To virtue, truth, or science dear,
Forego a court's alluring pale,

For dimpled brook and leafy grove,

For that rich luxury of thought they love!

ᎪᏂ

Ah no, from these the public sphere requires
Examples for its giddy bands:

From thefe impartial heaven demands
To spread the flame itself infpires;

To fift opinion's mingled mafs,

Imprefs a nation's tafte, and bid the fterling pafs

Happy, thrice happy they,

Whofe graceful deeds have exemplary shone
Round the gay precincts of a throne,

With mild effective beams!
Who bands of fair ideas bring,
By folemn grot, or fhady spring,

To join their pleafing dreams!
Theirs is the rural blifs without alloy,
They only that deferve, enjoy.

What though nor fabled dryad haunt their grove,
Nor naiad near their fountain rove,

Yet all embody'd to the mental fight,
A train of fmiling virtues bright

Shall there the wife retreat allow,

Shall twine triumphant palms to deck the wanderer's brow.

And though by faithlefs friends alarm'd, Art have with nature wag'd prefumptuous war; By Seymour's winning influence charm'd, In whom their gifts united fhine, No longer fhall their counfels jar. "Tis her to meditate the peace ;

Near

Near Percy-lodge, with awe-ftruck mien,
The rebel feeks her lawful queen,
And havock and contention cease.

I fee the rival powers combine,

And aid each other's fair defign;

Nature exalt the mound where art shall build;

Art fhape the gay alcove, while nature paints the field.

Begin, ye fongfters of the grove!
O warble forth your noblest lay;
Where Somerset vouchfafes to rove,
Ye leverets, freely fport and play.
-Peace to the ftrepent horn!

Let no harsh difonance difturb the morn,
No founds inelegant and rude
Her facred folitudes profane!
Unless her candour not exclude

The lowly fhepherd's votive ftrain,

Who tunes his reed amidft his rural chear,

Fearful, yet not averfe, that Somerset should hear.

O DE to

MEMOR Y. 1748.

Memory! celeftial maid!

Who glean'ft the flowerets cropt by time;

And, fuffering not a leaf to fade,

Preferv'it the bloffoms of our prime;

Bring, bring those moments to my mind
When life was new, and Lefbia kind.

And

And bring that garland to my fight,

With which my favour'd crook she bound;
And bring that wreath of roses bright
Which then my feftive temples crown'd.
And to my raptur'd ear convey

The gentle things fhe deign'd to fay.

And sketch with care the Mufe's bower,
Where Ifis rolls her filver tide;
Nor yet omit one reed or flower

That shines on Cherwell's verdant fide;
If fo thou may'ft those hours prolong,
When polish'd Lycon join'd my fong.

The fong it 'vails not to recite

But fure, to foothe our youthful dreams,
Those banks and streams appear'd more bright
Than other banks, than other streams:
Or, by thy foftening pencil fhewn,
Affume they beauties not their own?

And paint that sweetly vacant scene,
When, all beneath the poplar bough,
My fpirits light, my foul ferene,

I breath'd in verfe one cordial vow:
That nothing should my foul inspire,
But friendship warm, and love entire.
Dull to the fenfe of new delight,

On thee the drooping Mufe attends; As fome fond lover, robb'd of fight,

On thy expreffive power depends ;

Nor

Nor would exchange thy glowing lines,
To live the lord of all that shines.

But let me chafe thofe vows away
Which at ambition's fhrine I made;
Nor ever let thy skill display

Those anxious moments, ill repaid:
Oh! from my breast that season rafe,
And bring my childhood in its place.
Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,
And bring the hobby I beftrode;
When, pleas'd in many a sportive ring,
Around the room I jovial rode :
Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu,

And bring the whistle that I blew. Then will I mufe, and penfive fay, Why did not thefe enjoyments last; How fweetly wafted I the day,

While innocence allow'd to waste! Ambition's toils alike are vain,

But ah! for pleasure yield us pain.

The PRINCESS ELIZABETH: A BALLAD alluding to a story recorded of her, when she was prifoner at WOODSTOCK, 1554.

WILL you hear how once repining

Great Eliza captive lay?

Each ambitious thought refigning,
Foe to riches, pomp, and sway.