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She spoke nor was I born of savage race;
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;
FROM RURAL ELEGANCE.
AN ODE TO THE LATE DUCHESS OF SOMERSET.
WHILE orient skies restore the day,
And dew-drops catch the lucid ray;
Will aught the Muse inspire!
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
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;
And with no random curses loads the deed.
Nor yet, ye swains, conclude
That nature smiles for you
Your bounded souls, and your conceptions crude, The proud, the selfish boast disown:
Yours be the produce of the soil:
0 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?
Where Ariconium pours her gems profuse,
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 a smile.
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,
She, where she pleases kind or coy,
Then hither bring the fair ingenuous mind,
Lo! not an hedge-row hawthorn blows,
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
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?
Shall bid fair pleasure's rightful claim appear.
To soothe the certain ills of life;
New founts of bliss disclose,
Call forth refreshing shades, and decorate repose.
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 sketch with care the Muse's bower,
That shines on Cherwell's verdant side;
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,