A PASTORAL ODE.

TO THE HONOURABLE

SIR RICHARD LYTTLETON.

THE morn dispens'd a dubious light,

A sullen mist had stol'n from sight
Each pleasing vale and hill,

When Damon left his humble bowers

To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers,
Or check his wand'ring rill.

Tho' school'd from Fortune's paths to fly,
The swain beneath each low'ring sky
Would oft' his fate bemoan,

That he, in fylvan shades forlorn,

Must waste his cheerless ev'n and morn,
Nor prais'd, nor lov'd, nor known.

No friend to Fame's obstrep'rous noise,
Yet to the whispers of her voice,

Soft murm'ring, not a foe;

The pleasures he thro' choice declin'd,
When gloomy fogs depress'd his mind,
It griev'd him to forego:

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Griev'd him to lurk the lakes beside,
Where coots in rushy dingles hide,
And moorcocks shun the day;
While caitiff bitterns, undismay'd,
Remark the swain's familiar shade,
And scorn to quit their prey.

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To think Bridgewater's * honour'd' name
Should grace his rustic cell;

That she, on all whose motions wait

Distinction, titles, rank, and state,
Should rove where shepherds dwell.

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But true it is, the gen'rous mind,.
By candour sway'd, by taste refin'd,
Will nought but vice disdain;

Nor will the breast where fancy glows,
Deem every flower a weed that blows

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Amid the desert plain.

The Duchess of Bridgewater, married to Sir Richard Lyttleton.

Beseems it such, with honour crown'd,
To deal its lucid beams around,

Nor equal meed receive;

At most such garlands from the field,
As cowslips, pinks, and pansies, yield,
And rural hands can weave.

Yet strive, ye shepherds! strive to find,
And weave the fairest of the kind,
The prime of all the spring;

If haply thus yon' lovely fair

May round her temples deign to wear
The trivial wreaths you bring.

O how the peaceful halcyons play'd,
Where'er the conscious lake betray'd
Athenia's placid mien !

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How did the sprightlier linnets throng,

Where Paphia's charms requir'd the song, 'Mid hazel copses green!

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Lo, Dartmouth on those banks reclin'd,
While busy Fancy calls to mind

The glories of his line!

Methinks my cottage rears its head,
The ruin'd walls of yonder shed,

As thro' enchantment, shine,

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But who the nymph that guides their way?

Could ever nymph descend to stray

From Hagley's fam'd retreat?

Eise by the blooming features fair,

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The faultless make, the matchless air, 'Twere Cynthia's form complete.

So would some tuberose delight,

That struck the pilgrim's wond'ring sight 'Mid lonely deserts drear,"

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Ah! now no more, the shepherd cry'd,
Must I Ambition's charms deride,

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Her subtle force disown;

No more of Fauns or Fairies dream,

While Fancy, near each crystal stream,
Shall paint these forms alone.

Nor is it long-O plaintive swain !
Since Guernsey saw, without disdain,
Where, hid in woodlands green,

The partner of his early days*,

And once the rival of his praise,

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Had stol'n thro' life unseen.

Scarce faded is the vernal flower,

Since Stamford left his honour'd bow'r
To smile familiar here:

O, form'd by Nature to disclose

How fair that courtesy which flows
From social warmth sincere!

Nor yet have many moons decay'd
Since Pollio sought this lonely shade,
Admir'd this rural maze:

The noblest breast that Virtue fires,
The Graces love, the Muse inspires,
Might pant for Pollio's praise.

Say, Thomson here was known to rest;
For him yon' vernal seat I drest,

Ah! never to return!

In place of wit and melting strains,

And social mirth, it now remains

To weep beside his urn.

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They were schoolfellows.