Yet oft a tender wish recalls my mind
From present joys to dearer left behind.
O native isle, fair Freedom's happiest seat!
At thought of thee, my bounding pulses beat;
At thought of thee, my heart impatient burns,
And all my country on my soul returns.
When shall I see thy fields, whose plenteous grain
No power can ravish from th' industrious swain?
When kiss, with pious love, the sacred earth
That gave a Burleigh or a Russell birth?
When, in the shade of laws, that long have stood,
Propt by their care, or strengthen'd by their blood,
Of fearless independence wisely vain,

The proudest slave of Bourbon's race disdain?

Yet, oh! what doubt, what sad presaging voice, Whispers within, and bids me not rejoice; Bids me contemplate every state around, From sultry Spain to Norway's icy bound; Bids their lost rights, their ruin'd glory see: And tells me, "These, like England, once were free!"

SONG.

WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice but hers can hear,
No other wit but hers approve :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

VOL. VIII.

FF

If she some other youth commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy prove :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When she is absent, I do more
Delight in all that pleas'd before,
The clearest spring, or shadiest grove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When, fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove : Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

SONG

THE heavy hours are almost past
That part my love and me:
My longing eyes may hope at last
Their only wish to see.

But how, my Delia, will you meet
The man you 've lost so long?
Will love in all your pulses beat,
And tremble on your tongue?

Will you in every look declare
Your heart is still the same;
And heal each idly-anxious care
Our fears in absence frame?

Thus, Delia, thus I paint the scene,
When shortly we shall meet;
And try what yet remains between
Of loitering time to cheat.

But, if the dream that soothes my mind
Shall false and groundless prove;
If I am doom'd at length to find
You have forgot to love:

All I of Venus ask, is this;
No more to let us join :
But grant me here the flattering bliss,
To die, and think you mine.

SONG.

SAY, Myra, why is gentle love
A stranger to that mind,
Which pity and esteem can move,
Which can be just and kind?

Is it, because you fear to share
The ills that love molest;
The jealous doubt, the tender care,
That rack the amorous breast?

Alas! by some degree of woe
We every bliss must gain:
The heart can ne'er a transport know,
That never feels a pain.

TO THE MEMORY OF

THE FIRST LADY LYTTELTON.

A MONODY.

Ipse cavà solans ægrum testudine amorem,
Te duleis conjux, te solo in littore secum,
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.

Ar length escap'd from every human eye,
From every duty, every care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;
Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,
This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,

And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Of grief surpassing every other woe,
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires, inelegant and low.

Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'ershadowing hills,
Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!

But never shall you now behold her more:
Nor will she now with fond delight
And taste refin'd your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine
Reason's pure light and Virtue's spark divine.

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;

For her despising, when she deign'd to sing,
The sweetest songsters of the spring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more
The nightingale was mute,

And every shepherd's flute

Was cast in silent scorn away,
While all attended to her sweeter lay.

Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song,
And thou, melodious Philomel,

Again thy plaintive story tell;

For Death has stopt that tuneful tongue,

Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel

In vain I look around

O'er all the well-known ground,

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry;
Where oft we us'd to walk,

Where oft in tender talk

We saw the summer Sun go down the sky;

Nor by yon fountain's side,
Nor where its waters glide

Along the valley, can she now be found:

In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her espy,

But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.

O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast?
Your bright inhabitant is lost.