Shenstone

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How fweetly fmil'd the hill, the vale,
And all the Landscape round!

The river gliding down the dale,
The hill with beeches crown'd!

But now, when urg'd by tender woes,
I fpeed to meet my dear,

That hill and ftream my zeal oppose,
And check my fond career.

No more, fince Daphne was my theme,
Their wonted charms I fee;

That verdant hill and filver stream

Divide my love and me.

For a flape, and a bloom, and an air, and a
mien,

Myrtilla was brighteft of all the gay green,
But artfully wild and affectedly coy,

Thofe her beauties invited her pride would deftroy.

By the flocks as fhe ftray'd with the nymphs of
the vale,

Not a fhepherd but woo'd her to hear his foft tale;
Tho' fatal the paflion fhe laugh'd at the fwain,
And return'd with neglect what fhe heard with
difdain.

But beauty has wings and to haftily flies, And love unrewarded foon fickens and dies; The nymph cur'd by time of her folly and pride, Now fighs in her turn for the bliss she deny'd.

No longer the frolicks it wide o'er the plain, To kill with her coynefs the languishing fwain; So humbled her pride is, fo foften'd her mind, That tho' courted by none fhe to all would be kind.

SONG.

SON G.

When Damon languish'd at my feet,
And I believ'd him true,

The moments of delight how fweet!
But ah! how fwift they flew!
The funny hill, the flow'ry vale,
The garden and the grove,
Have echo'd to his ardent tale
And vows of endless love.

The conqueft gain'd, he left the prize,
He left her to complain,

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To talk of joy with weeping eyes,

And measure time by pain.

But Heav'n will take the mourner's part
In pity to despair,

And the laft figh that rends the heart
Shall waft the fpirit there.

Shenstone.
Dr. Percy.

Dr. Percy.

Dr. Thomas Percy, jezt Bischof zu Dromore in Irland, Herausgeber der mit so vielem Geschmack gesammelten und kommentirten Reliques of anc. Engl. Poetry, ift Verfasser folgendes angenehmen, naifen Liedes, worin einige der schönsten Züge aus Priors Henry and Emma bes nust find.

O NANCY, wilt thou go with me,
Nor figh to leave the flaunting town?
Can filent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly cot and ruffet gown?
No longer dreft in filken fheen,
No longer deck'd with jewels rare,

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Say

Dr. Percy.

Say can't thou quit each courtly scene,
Where thou wert faireft of the fair?

O NANCY! when thou'rt far away,

Wilt thou not caft a wifh behind?
Say can't thou face the parching ray,
Nor fhrink before the wintry wind?
O can that soft and gentle mien

Extremes of hardfhip learn to bear,
Nor fad regret each courtly fcene,
Where thou wert faireft of the fair?

O NANCY! canft thou love fa true,
Thro' perils keen with me to go,
Or when thy fwain mifhap fhall rue,
To fhare with him the pang of woe?
Say, fhould difeafe or pain befal,
Wilt thou affume the nurfe's care,
Nor wiftful thofe gay fcenes recal
Where thou wert faireft of the fair?

And when at last thy love fhall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou reprefs each ftruggling figh,
And cheer with fmiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay
Strew flowers and drop the tender tear;
Nor then regret thofe fcenes fo gay,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

Mrs.

Mrs. Barbauld.

Anna Låtitia Barbauld, Schwester des Dr. Aikin, die noch zu Hampstead, nahe bei London, lebt, wo ihr Mann eine Erziehungsanstalt hat, für die sie einige artige kleine Bücher schrieb. Sie ist Verfasserin einiger schönen Gedichte (Poems, by Mifs Aikin; Lond. 1773. 4.) unter denen einige treffliche Lieder find. Mehrere stehen noch in den nachher mit ihrem Bruder herausgegebenen Miscellaneous Pieces, und in der zweiten Ausgabe von des leztern schdnen Effay on Song - Writing.

SON G.

Mirs. Bar: bauld.

Come here, fond youth, whoe'er thou be

That boafts to love as well as me,
And if thy breaft have felt fo wide a wound,
Come hither and thy flame approve;
I'll teach thee what it is to love,
And by what marks true paffion may be found..

It is to be all bath'd in tears,

To live upon a smile for years,
To lie whole ages at a beauty's feet;
To kneel, to languifh and implore,
And ftill, tho' fhe difdain, adore;

It is to do all this and think thy fufferings fweet.

It is to gaze upon her eyes

With eager joy and fond surprize,

Yet temper'd with fuch chafte and awful fear,
As wretches feel who wait their doom!

Nor must one ruder thought prefume,

Tho' but in whispers breath'd, to meet her ear,

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It is to hope, tho' hope were loft;

Tho' heav'n and earth thy paffion croft; Tho' fhe were bright as fainted queens above,

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And

Mrs. Bar bauld.

And thou the leaft and meanest fwain,
That folds his flock upon the plain,

Yet if thou dar'ft not hope, thou doft not love,

It is to quench thy joy in tears,

To nurfe ftrange doubts and groundless fears,
If pangs of jealousy thou haft not prov'd,
Tho' fhe were fonder and more true
Than any nymph, old poets drew,
Oh! never dream again that thou haft lov'd.
If when the darling maid is gone,
Thou dost not seek to be alone,
Wrapt in a pleafing trance of tender woe;
And mufe, and fold thy languid arms,
Feeding thy fancy on her charms,
Thou doft not love; for love is nourish'd fo.

If any hopes thy bosom share

But thofe which love has planted there,
Or any cares but his thy breaft enthrall,
Thou never yet his power haft known;
Love fits on a defpotic throne,

And reigns a tyrant, if he reigns at all.

Now if thou art fo loft a thing,
Here all thy tender forrows bring,
And prove whofe patience longest can endure;
We'll ftrife whofe fancy fhall be loft

In dreams of fondeft paffion most,

For if thou thus haft lov'd, oh! never hope a cure.

Soame