"Henry, the faid, by thy dear form fubdued,
See the fad reliques of a nymph undone!
I find, I find this rising sob renew'd:

I figh in fhades, and ficken at the fun.
Amid the dreary gloom of night, I cry,

When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return? Yet what can morn's returning ray supply,

But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn! Alas! no more that joyous morn appears

That led the tranquil hours of fpotlefs fame; For I haye steep'd a father's couch in tears, And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with fhame. The vocal birds that raise their matin ftrain, The sportive lamps, increase my penfive moan; All feern to chafe me from the chearful plain, And talk of truth and innocence alone.

If through the garden's flowery tribes I stray, Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure, Hope not to find delight in us, they say,

For we are spotlefs, Jeffy; we are pure.

Ye flowers! that well reproach a nymph so frail;
Say, could ye with my virgin fame compare?
The brightest bud that fcents the vernal gale
Was not fo fragrant, and was not so fair.
Now the old alarm the gentler young;
grave

And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee;
Trembles each lip, and faulters every tongue,
That bids the morn propitious smile on me.

Thus

Thus for your fake I fhun each human eye;
I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu ;
To die I languish, but I dread to die,

Left my fad fate should nourish pangs for you,
Raife me from earth; the pains of want remove
And let me filent feek fome friendly fhore;
There only, banish'd from the form I love,
My weeping virtue fhall relapfe no more.
Be but my friend; I afk no dearer name;

Be fuch the meed of fome more artful fair;
Nor could it heal my peace, or chase fhame,
That pity gave, what love refus'd to share.

my

Force not my tongue to afk its scanty bread;
Nor hurl thy Jeffy to the vulgar crew;
Not fuch the parent's board at which I fed!
Not fuch the precept from his lips I drew !
Haply, when age has filver'd o'er my hair,
Malice may learn to scorn fo mean a spoil;
Envy may flight a face no longer fair;

And pity, welcome, to my native soil.”

She fpoke-nor was I born of favage race;
Nor could these hands a niggard boon affign;
Grateful the claíp'd me in a last embrace,

And vow'd to wafte her life in prayers for mine.

I faw her foot the lofty bark afcend;

I saw her breast with every paffion heave;

I left her-torn from every earthly friend;

Oh! my hard bofom, which could bear to leave!

Brief let me be; the fatal storm arose;

The billows rag'd, the pilot's art was vain
O'er the tall mast 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 inftru&t the gay,
From Jeffy floating on her watery bier!

ODES,

[79]

ODES, SONGS, BALLADS, &c.

RURAL ELEGANCE.

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

WHILE orient skies restore 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 purfue;
Does nature mean your joys alone to crown?

Say, does the fmooth her lawns for
For you does echo bid the rocks reply,

you

?

And urg❜d by rude constraint resound the jovial cry?

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn
The wretched fwain your sport furvey ;
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 curíes 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 still reward your toil !
Nor ever the defenceless train

Of clinging infants ask support in vain ?

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

Or the warm hope of distant gains

Far other cause of glee supply?
Is not the red-ftreak's future juice
The fource of your delight profound,
Where Ariconam pours her gems profuse,
Purpling a whole horizon round?
Athirst ye praife the limpid ftream, 'tis true:
But though, the pebbled fhores among,
It mimic no unpleafing fong,

The limpid fountain murmurs not for

Unpleas'd ye

fee the thickets bloom,

you.

Unpleas'd the fpring her flowery robe refume;

Unmov'd the mountain's airy pile,

The dappled mead without a finile.

O let a rural confcious Mufe,

For well she knows, your froward fense accuse: Forth to the folemn oak you bring the fquare, And span the maffy trunk, before you cry, 'tis fair.

Nor