To each I give. A mizzling mist defcends
Adown that steepy rock and this
Yon diftant rain. Shoreward the veffels ftrive;
And, fee, the boys their flocks to fhelter drive.
CEASE your mufic, gentle swains:
Saw ye Delia crofs the plains?
Every thicket, every grove,
Have I rang'd, to find my love:
A kid, a lamb, my flock, I give,
Tell me only, doth the live?
White her fkin as mountain-fnow;
In her cheek the rofes blow:
And her eye is brighter far
Than the beamy morning star.
When her ruddy lip ye view,
'Tis a berry moist with dew:
And her breath, oh, 'tis a gale
Paffing o'er a fragrant vale,
Paffing, when a friendly shower
Freshens every herb and flower.
Wide her bofom opens, gay
As the primrofe-dell in May,
Sweet as violet-borders growing
Over fountains ever-flowing.
Like the tendrils of the vine,
Do her auburn treffes twine,
Gloffy ringlets all behind:
Streaming buxom to the wind,
When along the lawn fhe bounds,
Light, as hind before the hounds :
And the youthful ring the fires,
Hopeless in their fond defires,
As her flitting feet advance,.
Wanton in the winding dance.
Tell me, fhepherds, have ye
My delight, my love, my queen?
THE HAPPY SWAIN..
HAVE ye feen the morning sky,
When the dawn prevails on high,
When, anon, fome purply ray.
Gives a fample of the day,
When, anon, the lark, on wing,-
Strives to foar, and strains to fing?-
Have ye feen th' ethereal blue.
Gently fhedding filvery dew,
Spangling o'er the filent
While the nightingale, unfeen,
To the moon and ftars, full bright,.
Lonesome chants the hymn of night?
Have ye feen the broider'd May
All her fcented bloom difplay,
Breezes opening, every hour,
This, and that, expecting flower,
While the mingling birds prolong,
From each bush, the vernal fong?
Have ye feen the damask-rofe
Her unfully'd blush difclofe,
Or the lily's dewy bell,
In her gloffy white, excell,
Or a garden vary'd o'er
With a thousand glories more?
By the beauties these display,
Morning, evening, night, or day,
By the pleasures thefe excite,
Endless fource of delight!
Judge, by them, the joys I find,
Since my Rofalind was kind,
Since the did herself refign
To my vows, for ever mine.
DESIRED ME TO WRITE ON THE DEATH OF
RUST me, dear George, could I in verse but show
What forrow I, what forrow all men, owe
To Nassau's fate, or could I hope to raise
A fong proportion'd to the monarch's praife,
Could I his merits, or my grief, express,
And proper thoughts in proper language drefs,
Unbidden fhould my pious numbers flow,
The tribute of a heart o'ercharg'd with woe;
But, rather than prophane his facred hearse
With languid praifes, and unhallow'd verse,
My fighs I to myself in filence keep,
And inwardly, with fecret anguish, weep.
Let Halifax's Mufe (he knew him well)
His virtues to fucceeding ages tell.
Let him, who fung the warrior on the Boyne,
(Provoking Dorfet in the task to join)
And fhew'd the hero more than man before,
Let him th' illuftrious mortal's fate deplore;
A mournful theme: while, on raw pinions, I
But flutter, and make weak attempts to fly :
Content, if, to divert my vacant time,
I can but like fome love-fick fopling rhyme,
To fome kind-hearted mistress make my court,
And, like a modifh wit, in fonnet fport.
Let others, more ambitious, rack their brains
In polish'd fentiments, and labour'd strains:
To blooming Phyllis I a fong compose,
And, for a rhyme, compare her to the rose;
Then, while my fancy works, I write down morn,
To paint the blush that does her cheek adorn,
And, when the whitenefs of her skin I fhow,.
With ecftafy bethink myself of fnow.
Thus, without pains, I tinkle in the clofe,
And sweeten into verfe infipid profe.
The country fcraper, when he wakes his crowd,
And makes the tortur'd cat-gut fqueak aloud,
Is often ravish'd, and in tranfport loft:
What more, my friend, can fam'd Corelli boaft,
When harmony herself from heaven defcends,
And on the artist's moving bow attends?
Why then, in making verfes, fhould I strain.
For wit, and of Apollo beg a vein ?
Who ftudy Horace and the Stagyrite ?
Why cramp. my dulnefs, and in torment write?
Let me tranfgrefs by nature, not by rule,,
An artless idiot, not a study'd fool,
A Withers, not a Rymer, fince I aim
At nothing lefs, in writing, than a name.
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