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ON THE SPRING.
TO A LADY.
Lo! Spring array'd in primrose-colourd robe,
Fresh beauties sheds on each enliven'd scene, With showers and sunshine cheers the smiling globe,
And mantles hill and vale in glowing green.
All nature feels her vital heat around,
The pregnant glebenow bursts with foodful grain; With kindly warmth she opes the frozen ground,
And with new life informs the teeming plain,
She calls the fishes from their oozy beds,
And animates the deep with genial love; She bids the herds bound sportive o'er the mead,
And with glad songs awakes the joyous grove.
No more the glaring tiger roams for prey,
All-powerful Love subdues his savage soul, To find his spotted mate he darts away, While gentler thoughts the thirst of blood con
But ah! while all is warmth and soft desire,
While all around Spring's cheerful infuence own, You feel not, Amoret, her quickening fire,
To Spring's kind influence a foe alone.
TO A LADY
WHO HATES THE COUNTRY,
Now Summer, daughter of the Sun, O'er the gay fields comes dancing on,
And earth o'erflows with joys; Too long in routs and drawing-rooms, The tasteless hours my fair consumes,
Midst folly, flattery, noise.
Come hear mild zephyr bid the rose
Come hear the falling rill;
Beside yon sloping hill.
By health awoke at early morn,
And help unpen the fold;
An holy Druid old.
Come wildly rove through desert dales, To listen how lone nightingales
In liquid lays complain ; Adieu the tender thrilling note, That pants in Monticelli's throat,
And Handel's stronger strain.
Insipid pleasures these! (you cry)
To see rude peasants toil?
To my sagacious Hoyle??"
O falsely fond of what seems great,
And all life's tinsel glare!
Your length of sable hair.
Soon as you reach the rural shade,
Your days and nights attend;
Your true ally and friend.
· Arcadia; a romance by Sir Philip Sidney.
2 Alluding to those ladies who bave left their Novels and Romances for the profound study of Mr. Hoyle's book or Whist.
LOSS OF HIS FATHER, THE REV.
No more of mirth and rural joys,
I tune my alter'd strings to woe;
Fond wilt thou be his name to praise,
She plac'd her ivy on his head;
With genius, wit, and science blessid,
Malignant Fortune's darts despise;
For ever sacred, ever dear,
Fresh roses on thy tomb I strow,
Let me to that deep cave resort,
While dumb Misfortune near hier stands; With downcast eyes the Cares around her wait, And Pity sobbing sits before the gate.
Thus stretch'd upon his grave I sung,
Was heard in solemn whispers round• Weep not for me, embath'd in bliss above, In the bright kingdoms bless'd of joy and love'.'
Nymphs of the forests, that young oaks protect From noxious blasts, and the blue thunder's dart; O how securely might ye dwell
In Britain's peaceful shades,
With murder your retreats!
Or early-mounting lark !
Enougb, dear Youth!--though wrap'd in bliss above, Well pleas'd I listen to thy lays of love.' Subjoined to the edition of his fatber's poems, 1748.