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WINTER, 1746.

No more, ye warbling birds! rejoice:
Of all that cheer'd the plain,
Echo alone preserves her voice,
And she-repeats my pain.
Where'er my lovesick limbs I lay,
To shun the rushing wind,
Its busy murmur seems to say,
'She never will be kind!'

The Naiads o'er their frozen urns
In icy chains repine,

And each in sullen silence mourns
Her freedom lost, like mine!
Soon will the sun's returning rays
The cheerless frost control,
When will relenting Delia chase
The winter of my soul?

THE SCHOLAR'S RELAPSE.

By the side of a grove, at the foot of a hill,
Where whisper'd the beech and where murmur'd the
I vow'd to the Muses my time and my care, [rill,
Since neither could win me the smiles of my fair.
Free I rang'd like the birds, like the birds free I sung,
And Delia's lov'd name scarce escap'd from my

tongue;

But if once a smooth accent delighted my ear,
I should wish, unawares, that my Delia might hear.

With fairest ideas my bosom I stor❜d,
Allusive to none but the nymph I ador'd;
And the more I with study my fancy refin'd,
The deeper impression she made on my mind.
So long as of Nature the charms I pursue,
I still must my Delia's dear image renew;
The Graces have yielded with Delia to rove,
And the Muses are all in alliance with Love.

THE ROSE-BUD.

SEE, Daphne! see (Florelio cried)
And learn the sad effects of pride;
Yon shelter'd Rose, how safe conceal'd!
How quickly blasted when reveal'd!
'The sun with warm attractive rays
Tempts it to wanton in the blaze;
A gale succeeds from eastern skies,
And all its blushing radiance dies.

So you, my fair! of charms divine,
Will quit the plains, too fond to shine
Where fame's transporting rays allure,
Though here more happy, more secure.
'The breath of some neglected maid
Shall make you sigh you left the shade;
A breath to beauty's bloom unkind,
As to the rose an eastern wind.'

The nymph replied, 'You first, my swain!
Confine your sonnets to the plain;
One envious tongue alike disarms
You of your wit, me of my charms.

'What is unknown, the poet's skill?
Or what, unheard, the tuneful thrill?
What, unadmir'd, a charming mien?
Or what the rose's blush unseen?

DAPHNE'S VISIT.

YE birds for whom I rear'd the grove,
With melting lay salute my love;
My Daphne with your notes detain,
Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.
Ye flowers! before her footsteps rise,
Display at once your brightest dyes,
That she your opening charms may see;
Or what were all your charms to me?
Kind zephyr! brush each fragrant flow'r,
And shed its odours round my bow'r;
Or never more, O gentle wind!
Shall I from thee refreshment find.
Ye streams! if e'er your banks I lov'd,
If e'er your native sounds improv'd;
May each soft murmur soothe my fair,
Or, oh! 'twill deepen my despair.
And thou, my grot! whose lonely bounds
The melancholy pine surrounds,
May Daphne praise thy peaceful gloom,
Or thou shall prove her Damon's tomb.

VOL. XXIV.

WRITTEN IN A

COLLECTION OF BACCHANALIAN SONGS.

ADIEU, ye jovial youths! who join

To plunge old care in floods of wine;
And as your dazzled eye-balls roll,
Discern him struggling in the bowl.
Nor yet is hope so wholly flown,
Nor yet is thought so tedious grown,
But limpid stream and shady tree
Retain, as yet, some sweets for me.
And see, through yonder silent grove,
See, yonder does my Daphne rove?
With pride her footsteps I pursue,
And bid your frantic joys adieu.
The sole confusion I admire
Is that my Daphne's eyes inspire;
I scorn the madness you approve,
And value reason next to love.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

YES, these are the scenes where with Iris I stray'd,
But short was her sway for so lovely a maid!
In the bloom of her youth to a cloister she run,
In the bloom of her graces, too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove,
So fatal to beauty, so killing to love'

Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs, and the
plains,
[pains;
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my
How many soft moments I spent in this grove!
How fair was my nymph! and how fervent my love!
Be still though, my heart! thine emotion give o'er;
Remember the season of love is no more.

With her how I stray'd amid fountains and bow'rs!
Or loiter'd behind, and collected the flow'rs!
Then breathless with ardour my fair-one pursued,
And to think with what kindness my garland she
view'd!

But be still my fond heart! this emotion give o'er;
Fain wouldst thou forget thou must love her no more.

SONG.

WHEN bright Ophelia treads the green,
In all the pride of dress and mien,
Averse to freedom, mirth, and play,
The lofty rival of the day,
Methinks to my enchanted eye
The lilies droop, the roses die.

But when, disdaining art, the Fair
Assumes a soft engaging air,
Mild as the opening morn of May,
And as the feather'd warblers gay,
The scene improves where'er she goes,
More sweetly smiles the pink and rose.

'O lovely maid! propitious hear,
Nor think thy Damon insincere,

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