DESIGNED FOR LADY PLYMOUTH, 1753-4.
Debitæ nymphis opifex coronæ.
Constructor of the tributary wreath
For rural maids.
BRING, Flora, bring thy treasures here,
The pride of all the blooming year,
And let me thence a garland frame
To crown this fair, this peerless, dame!
But, ah! since envious Winter lours,
And Hewell meads resign their flow'rs,
Let Art and Friendship's joint essay
Diffuse their flowerets in her way.
Not Nature can herself prepare
A worthy wreath for Lesbia's hair,
Whose temper, like her forehead, smooth,
Whose thoughts and accents form'd to sooth,
Whose pleasing mien, and make refin'd,
Whose artless breast, and polish'd mind,
From all the nymphs of plain or grove
Deserv'd and won my Plymouth's love!
Optima quæque dies miseris mortalibus ævi
Ah! wretched mortals we !-our brightest days
On fleetest pinion fly.
A TEAR bedews my Delia's eye,
To think yon playful kid must die;
From crystal spring and flowery mead
Must in his prime of life recede!
Erewhile, in sportive circles round
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound;
From rock to rock pursue his way,
And on the fearful margin play.
Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell,
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravish'd at the sight.
She tells, with what delight he stood
To trace his features in the flood,
Then skip'd aloof with quaint amaze,
And then drew near again to gaze.
She tells me, how with eager speed
He flew to hear my vocal reed;
And how, with critic face profound
And stedfast ear, devour'd the sound.
VOL. XXIV.
His every frolic, light as air,
Deserves the gentle Delia's care,
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful kid must die.
But knows my Delia, timely wise,
How soon this blameless æra flies?
While violence and craft succeed,
Unfair design, and ruthless deed!
Soon would the vine his wounds deplore,
And yield her purple gifts no more;
Ah! soon eras'd from every grovc
Were Delia's name and Strephon's love.
No more those bowers might Strephon see,
Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee;
No more those beds of flowerets find,
Which for thy charming brows he twin'd.
Each wayward passion soon would tear
His bosom, now so void of care;
And when they left his ebbing vein,
What but insipid age remain?
Then mourn not the decrees of Fate,
That gave his life so short a date;
And I will join my tenderest sighs,
To think that youth so quickly flies!
So dear my Lucio is to me,
So well our minds and tempers blend, That seasons may for ever flee,
And ne'er divide me from my friend; But let the favour'd boy forbear To tempt with love my only fair. O Lycon! born when every Muse, When every Grace, benignant smil'd, With all a parent's breast could choose
To bless her lov'd, her only child; 'Tis thine, so richly grac'd, to prove More noble cares than cares of love. Together we from early youth
Have trod the flowery tracks of time, Together mus❜d in search of truth,
O'er learned sage or bard sublime; And well thy cultur'd breast I know, What wondrous treasure it can show. Come, then, resume the charming lyre, And sing some patriot's worth sublime, Whilst I in fields of soft desire
Consume my fair and fruitless prime; Whose reed aspires but to display The flame that burns me night and day. O come! the Dryads of the woods
Shall daily soothe thy studious mind, The blue-ey'd nymphs of yonder floods Shall meet and court thee to be kind; And Fame sits listening for thy lays, To swell her trump with Lucio's praise.
Like me, the plover fondly tries
To lure the sportsmán from her nest,
And fluttering on with anxious cries,
Too plainly shows her tortur'd breast;
O let him, conscious of her care,
Pity her pains, and learn to spare.
TO THE HONOURABLE SIR RICHARD LYTTELTON.
THE morn dispens'd a dubious light,
A sullen mist had stolen from sight
Each pleasing vale and hill,
When Damon left his humble bowers
To guard his flocks to fence his flowers,
Or check his wandering rill.
Though school'd from Fortune's paths to fly,
The swain beneath each louring sky
Would oft his fate bemoan,
That he, in silvan shades forlorn,
Must waste his cheerless ev'n and morn,
Nor prais'd, nor lov'd, nor known.
No friend to Fame's obstreperous noise,
Yet to the whispers of her voice,
Soft murmuring, not a foe;
The pleasures he through choice declin❜d,
When gloomy fogs depress'd his mind,
It griev'd him to forego.
|