But let me chase those vows away
Which at Ambition's shrine I made,
Nor ever let thy skill display

Those anxious moments, ill repaid;
Oh! from my breast that season rase,
And bring my childhood in its place.

Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,
And bring the hobby I bestrode,
When pleas'd, in many a sportive ring
Around the room I jovial rode;
Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu,
And bring the whistle that I blew.

Then will I muse, and pensive say,
'Why did not these enjoyments last?
How sweetly wasted I the day,

While innocence allow'd to waste!
Ambition's toils alike are vain,

But, ah! for pleasure yield us pain!

WRITTEN TOWARDS THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1748.

TO WILLIAM LYTTELTON, ESQ.

How blithely pass'd the summer's day!

How bright was every flow'r!

While friends arriv'd, in circles gay,

To visit Damon's bow'r!

But now, with silent step, I range
Along some lonely shore:

And Damon's bower (alas the change!)
Is gay with friends no more.

Away to crowds and cities borne,
In quest of joy they steer,
Whilst I, alas! am left forlorn

To weep the parting year!
O pensive Autumn! how I grieve
Thy sorrowing face to see!
When languid suns are taking leave
Of every drooping tree.

Ah! let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey!
Haste, Winter! haste; usurp the sky;
Complete my bower's decay.

Ill can I bear the motley cast
Yon sickening leaves retain,
That speak at once of pleasure past,
And bode approaching pain.

At home unbless'd, I gaze around,
My distant scenes require,
Where, all in murky vapours drown'd,
Are hamlet, hill, and spire.

Though Thomson, sweet descriptive bard!
Inspiring Autumn sung;

Yet how should he the months regard
That stopp'd his flowing tongue?

Ah! luckless months, of all the rest,
To whose hard share it fell!
For sure his was the gentlest breast
That ever sung so well.

And see, the swallows now disown
The roofs they lov'd before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown
To glad some happier shore.

The wood-nymph eyes with pale affright,
The sportsman's frantic deed,

While hounds, and horns, and yells, unite
To drown the Muse's reed.

Ye fields! with blighted herbage brown,
Ye skies! no longer blue;

Too much we feel from Fortune's frown
To bear these frowns from you.

Where is the mead's unsullied green?
The zephyr's balmy gale?

And where sweet Friendship's cordial mien,
That brighten'd every vale?

What though the vine disclose her dyes,
And boast her purple store?
Not all the vineyard's rich supplies

Can soothe our sorrows more.

He! he is gone, whose moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine;
He! he is gone, whose social vein
Surpass'd the power of wine.

Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise,
In yon sequester'd grove,

To him a votive urn I raise,

To him and friendly Love.

Yes, there, my friend! forlorn and sad,
I grave your Thomson's name;
And there his lyre, which fate forbade
To sound your growing fame.

There shall my plaintive song recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe,.
And faster than the dropping fount
I'll teach mine eyes to flow.

There leaves, in spite of Autumn green,
Shall shade the hallow'd ground;
And Spring will there again be seen,
To call forth flowers around.

But no kind suns will bid me share,
Once more, his social hour;
Ah, Spring! thou never canst repair
This loss to Damon's bower.

AN IRREGULAR ODE,

AFTER SICKNESS, 1749.

-Melius, cum venerit ipsa, canemus.

His wish'd-for presence will improve the song.

Too long a stranger to repose,

At length from Pain's abhorred couch I rose,

And wander'd forth alone,

To court once more the balmy breeze,
And catch the verdure of the trees,
Ere yet their charms were flown.

'Twas from a bank with pansies gay
I hail'd once more the cheerful day,
The sun's forgotten beams:

O Sun! how pleasing were thy rays,
Reflected from the polish'd face
Of yon refulgent streams!

Rais'd by the scene, my feeble tongue
Essay'd again the sweets of song,

And thus in feeble strains, and slow,
The loitering numbers 'gan to flow.

'Come, gentle Air! my languid limbs restore, And bid me welcome from the Stygian shore; For sure I heard the tender sighs,

I seem❜d to join the plaintive cries

Of hapless youths, who through the myrtle grove Bewail for ever their unfinish'd love;

To that unjoyous clime,

Torn from the sight of these ethereal skies,
Debar'd the lustre of their Delia's eyes,

And banish'd in their prime.

'Come, gentle Air! and, while the thickets bloom, Convey the jasmine's breath divine,

Convey the woodbine's rich perfume,
Nor spare the sweet-leaf'd eglantine;
And may'st thou shun the rugged storm
Till Health her wonted charms explain,
With Rural Pleasure in her train,
To greet me in her fairest form ;
While from this lofty mount I view

The sons of Earth, the vulgar crew,

Anxious for futile gains, beneath me stray, [way. And seek with erring step Contentment's obvious

'Come, gentle Air! and thou, celestial Muse! Thy genial flame infuse,

Enough to lend a pensive bosom aid,

And gild Retirement's gloomy shade;

Enough to rear such rustic lays

As foes may slight, but partial friends will praise.'