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Afterwards Lord MELCOMBE.


EAR, DODDINGTON, the notes that shepherds fing,

Notes soft as those of nightingales in spring:
Nor Pan, nor Phoebus tune the shepherd's reed;
From Love alone our tender lays proceed :
Love warms our fancy with enliv'ning fires,
Refines our genius, and our verse inspires :
From him Theocritus, on Enna's plains,
Learnt the wild sweetness of his Doric strains :
Virgil by him was taught the moving art,
That charm'd each and foften'd

O would't thou quit the pride of courts, and deign
To dwell with us upon the vocal plain,
Thee too his pow's should reach, and every shade
Refound the praises of thy fav'rite maid ;
Thy pipe our rural concert would improve,
And we should learn of thee to please and love,

Damon no longer fought the filent shade,
No more in unfrequented paths he stray'd,



heart :

But call'd the nymphs to hear his jocund song,
And told his joy to all the rustic throng.

Bleft be the hour, he said, that happy hour,
When first I own'd my Delia's gentle pow'r ;
Then gloomy discontent and pining care
Forsook my breast, and left soft wishes there :
Soft wishes there they left, and gay desires,
Delightful languors, and transporting fires.
Where yonder limes combine to form a shade,
These eyes first gaz'd upon the charming maid;
There she appear'd, on that auspicious day,
When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay:
She led the dance-heavens! with what grace she mov'd!
Who could have seen her then, and not haye lov'd ?
I ftrove not to resist so sweet a flame,
But glory'd in a happy captive's name;
Nor would I now, could Love permit, be free,
But leave to brutes their favage liberty.

And art thou then, fond swain, secure of joy? Can no reverse thy flate’ring bliss destroy ? Has treach'rouş. Love no torment yet in store ? Or haft thou never prov'd his fạcal pow'r ? Whence Aow'd those tears that late bedew'd thy cheek? Why figh'd thy heart as if it strove to break ? Why were the defart rocks invok'd to hear The plaintive accents of thy fad despair ? From Delia's rigour all those pains arose, Delia, who now compassionates my woes,


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Who bids me hope ; and in that charming word Has peace and transport to my soul restor’d.

Begin, my pipe, begin the glad some lay; A kiss from Del a shall thy music pay ; A kifs obtain'd 'twixt struggling and consent, Giv'n with forc'd anger, and disguis'd content: No laureat wreaths I ask to bind my brows, Such as the Muse on lofty burds bestows i Let other swains to praise or fame aspire : I from her lips my recompence require.

Hark how the bees with murmurs fill the plain, While every flow'r of every sweet they drain ; See, how beneath yon hillock's shady steep, The shelter'd herds on flow'ry couches fleep: Nor bees, nor herds, are half so bleft as I, If with my fond desires my Love comply: From Delia's lips a sweeter honey flows, And on hér bosom dwells more soft repose.

Ah how, my dear, shall I deserve thy charms : What gift can bribe thee to my longing arms ! A bird for thee in filken bands I hold, Whose yellow plumage shines like polish'd gold ; From diftant isles the lovely stranger came, And bears the Fortunate Canaries name; In all our woods no ne boasts so sweet a note, Not ev'n the nightingale's melodious throat. Accept of this; and could I add beside What wealth the rich Peruvian mountains hide ;

If all the gems in Eastern rocks were mine,
On thee alone their glitt'ring pride should shine,
But if thy mind no gifts have pow'r to move,
Phæbus himself shall leave th’ Aonian grove ;
The tuneful Nine, who never sue in vain,
Shall come sweet suppliants for their fav’rite swain.
For him each blue-ey'd Naiad of the flood,
For him each green-hair'd fifter of the wood,
Whom oft beneath fair Cynthia's gentle ray
His music calls to dance the night away.
And you, fair nymphs, companions of my Love,
With whom she joys the cow.lip meads to rove,
I beg you recommend my faithful Aame,
And let her often hear her shepherd's name ;
Shade all my faults from her enquiring light,
And shew my merits in the faireit light;
My pipe your kind assistance shall repay,
And ev'ry friend Mall claim a diff'rent lay,

But see! in yonder g'ade the heav'nly fair
Enjoys the fragrance of the breezy air-
Ah, thither let me fly with eager
Adieu, my pipe, I go my Love to meet-

I find her as we parted lat,
And may each future hour be like the paft!
So shall the whitelt lamb these pastures feed,
Propitious Venus, on thy altars bleed.



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Now Sir EDWARD WALPOLE, fecond Son to Sir ROBERT

WALPOLE, Earl of Orford.


HE gods, O WALPOLE, give no bliss fincere :

Wealth is difturb'd by care, and pow'r by fear.
Of all the passions that employ the mind,
In gentle love the sweetest joys we find;
Yet ev'n those joys dire Jealousy molefts,
And blackens each fair image in our breasts.
O may the warmth of thy too tender heart
Ne'er feel the sharpness of his venom'd dart;
For thy own quiet think thy mistress juft,
And wisely take thy happiness on truft.

Begin, my Mufe, and Damon's woes rehearse,
In wildest numbers and disorder'd verse.

On a romantic mountain's airy head
(While browzing goats at ease around him fed)
Anxious he lay, with jealous cares oppress'd;
Diftruft and anger lab'ring in his breast
The vale beneath a pleafing prospect yields,
Of verdant meads and cultivated fields


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