Oh! I could doat upon the rural scene, • That parts my Damon from his promis'd bride. The gardens now put forth their bloffoms fweet, • The lily pale, the purple blushing rose, In this fair spot their mingled beauties join; • The woodbine here it's curling tendrils throws, In wreaths fantaftick, round the mantling vine. • The branching arbour here, for lovers made, For dalliance meet, or fong, or amorous tale, • Shall oft protect us with it's cooling fhade, • When fultry Phoebus burns the lowly vale. < 'Tis all another paradife around; • And, trust me, fo it would appear to me, For two, but two, I've form'd a lovely walk, And I have call'd it by my fair-one's name; • Here, bless'd with thee, t' enjoy thy pleafing talk, • While fools and madmen bow the knee to fame. The ruftick path already have I try'd, • Oft at the finking of the fetting day; • And while, my love, I thought thee by my fide, • With careful steps have worn it's edge away. • With With thee I've held difcourfe, how paffing fweet! While fancy brought thee to my raptur'd dream ; • With thee have prattled in my lone retreat, And talk'd down funs on love's delicious theme. Oft, as I wander through the ruftick crowd, Mufing with downcaft look, and folded arms; They' ftare with wonder when I rave aloud, • And dwell with rapture on thy artless charms. They call me mad, and oft with finger rude, Yet Colin knows the caufe, for love is fhrewd, Among the fruits that grace this little feat, And all around their clustering foliage spread, • Here may'ft thou cull the peach, or nectarine sweet, And pluck the ftrawberry from it's native bed. And all along the river's verdant fide, I've planted elms, which rife in even row, And fling their lofty branches far and wide, Which float reflected, in the lake below, Since I've been abfent from my lovely fair, • For O! my Delia, thou art all my care, O flattering promise of secure delight! And we shall meet again, to part no more?' ODE ODE ON HEARING MUSICK. BY JOHN SCOTT, ESQ. ON organ! hark!-how foft, how fweet, Y the organ, harke how feft, how f The found my fancy leads To climes where Phoebus' brightest beams Where myrtle bowers their bloom unfold, Where grapes depress the vines; Now different tones and measures flow, I feem to join the mournful train, To where the orphan'd infant fleeps, I pitying feem to ftray; And wipe her tears away. B Now Now loud the tuneful thunders roll, And rouze and elevate the foul I feem to hear from heavenly plains THE WALL-FLOWER. BY DR. LANGHORNE. HY loves my flower, the fweetest flower WH That swells the golden breast of May, • Thrown rudely o'er this ruin'd tower, To wafte her folitary day? From thee be far th' ungentle deed, The flower that crowns their former toil! Nor deem that flower the garden's foe, 'Or fond to grace this barren fhade; ''Tis Nature tells her to bestow 'Her honours on the lonely dead. For this, obedient zephyrs bear • Her light feeds round yon turret's mold; 'And, undifpers'd by tempefts, there Nor fhall thy wonder wake to fee • Such defart fcenes diftinction crave; 'Oft have they been, and oft shall be • Truth's, Honour's, Valour's, Beauty's grave. When that, too, fhakes the trembling ground, And many a flumbering cottage round Of them who, wrapt in earth fo cold, • No more the smiling day shall view, • Should many a tender tale be told, For many a tender thought is due, B 2 • Haft |