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She spoke-nor was I born of savage race;

Nor could these hands a niggard boon assign; Grateful she clasp'd me in a last embrace,

And vow'd to waste her life in pray’rs for mine.

I saw her foot the lofty bark ascend;

I saw her breast with every passion heave; I left her--torn from every earthly friend; Oh!

my

hard bosom, 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 surges close ;

My Jessy_floats upon the watery plain!

And see my youth's impetuous fires decay;

Seek not to stop reflection's bitter tear; But warn the frolic, and instruct the gay,

From Jessy floating on her watery bier !

FROM RURAL ELEGANCE.

AN ODE TO THE LATE DUCHESS OF SOMERSET.

While orient skies restore the day,

And dew-drops catch the lucid ray;
Amid the sprightly scenes of morn,

Will aught the Muse inspire !
Oh! peace to yonder clamorous horn

That drowns the sacred lyre !

.

Ye rural thanes that o'er the mossy down

Some panting, timorous hare pursue ;
Does nature mean your joys alone to crown?

Say, does she smooth her lawns for you?
For
you

does echo bid the rocks reply, And, urg'd by rude constraint, resound the jovial

cry?

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn,

The wretched swain your sport survey;
He finds his faithful fences torn,

He finds his labour'd crops a prey;
He sees his flock-no more in circles feed;

Haply beneath your ravage bleed,
And with no random curses loads the deed.

Nor yet, ye swains, conclude
That nature smiles for

you

alone; Your bounded souls, and your conceptions crude,

The proud, the selfish boast disown:
Yours be the produce of the soil :
O
may
it still reward

your

toil! Nor ever the defenceless train Of clinging infants ask support 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 supply?
Is not the red-streak's future juice
The source of your delight profound,

Where Ariconium pours her gems profuse,

Purpling a whole horizon round?
Athirst ye praise the limpid stream, 'tis true :

But though, the pebbled shores among,

It mimic no unpleasing song,
The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.

Unpleas'd ye see the thickets bloom, Unpleas'd the spring her flowery robe resume;

Unmov'd the mountain's airy pile,
The dappled mead without smile.

O let a rural conscious Muse,
For well she knows, your froward sense accuse :

Forth to the solemn oak you bring the square, And span the massy trunk, before you cry, 'tis fair.

Nor yet, ye learn'd, nor yet ye courtly train,

If haply from your haunts ye stray
To waste with us a summer's day,
Exclude the taste of every swain,

Nor our untutor'd sense disdain :
'Tis nature only gives exclusive right

To relish her supreme delight ;

She, where she pleases kind or coy,
Who furnishes the scene and forms us to enjoy.

Then hither bring the fair ingenuous mind,
By her auspicicious 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 such the rivers dash the foaming tides,

The mountain swells, the dale subsides ;
Ev’n thriftless furze detains their wandering sight,
And the rough barren rock grows pregnant with

delight.

*

Why brand these pleasures with the name Of soft, unsocial toils, of indolence and shame?

Search but the garden, or the wood,

Let yon admir'd carnation own,
Not all was meant for raiment, or for food,

Not all for needful use alone; There while the seeds of future blossoms dwell, 'Tis colour'd for the sight, perfum'd to please the

smell. Why knows the nightingale to sing?

Why flows the pine's nectareous juice?
Why shines with paint the linnet's wing?

For sustenance alone ? For use ?
For preservation ? Every sphere
Shall bid fair pleasure's rightful claim appear.
And sure there seem, of human kind,

Some born to shun the solemn strife;
Some for amusive tasks design'd,

To soothe the certain ills of life ; Grace its lone vales with many a budding rose,

New founts of bliss disclose, Call forth refreshing shades, and decorate repose.

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ODE TO MEMORY.

O MEMORY! celestial maid !

Who glean'st the flowerets cropt by Time; And, suffering not a leaf to fade,

Preserv'st the blossoms of our prime; Bring, bring those moments to my mind When life was new, and Lesbia kind. And bring that garland to my sight,

With which my favour'd crook she bound; And bring that wreath of roses bright

Which then my festive temples crown'd;
And to my raptur'd ear convey
The gentle things she deign'd to say.

And sketch with care the Muse's bower,

Where Isis rolls her silver tide; Nor yet omit one reed or flower

That shines on Cherwell's verdant side; If so thou may'st those hours prolong, When polish'd Lycon join'd my song.

The song it 'vails not to recite

But sure, to soothe our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appear'd more bright

Than other banks, than other streams : Or, by thy softening pencil shown, Assume thy beauties not their own?

And paint that sweetly vacant scene,

When, all beneath the poplar bough,

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