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So oft I have, the evening ftill,
As the fountain of a rill,
Sat upon a flow'ry bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While ftray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,

From houfe to houfe, from hill to hill, Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd fides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind; And groves and grottos, where I lay, And viftos fhooting beams of day. Wide and wider fpreads the vale, As circles on a smooth canal: The mountains round, unhappy fate! Sooner or later, of all height, Withdraw their fummits from the skies, And leffen as the others rise.

Still the profpect wider fpreads,
Adds a thoufand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens ftill,
And finks the newly-rifen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours, intervene;
But the
gay, the open
Does the face of Nature fhew
In all the hues of heaven's bow;
And, fwelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the fight.

Old cattles on the cliffs arife,
Proudly tow'ring in the skies;
Rufhing from the woods, the fpires
Seem from hence afcending fires:
Half his beams Apollo fheds
On the yellow mountain-heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.

Below me trecs unnumber'd life,
Beautiful in various dyes:

The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the fable yew:
The flender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs;
And, beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phillis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the op'aing dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, fteep and high,
Holds and charms the wand'ring cye.
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood;
His fides are cloth'd with waving wood;
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That caft an awful look below;
Whofe ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps:
So both a fafety from the wind
On mutual dependance find.

"Tis now the raven's bleak abode,
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad;
And there the fox fecurely feeds,
And there the pois'nous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, mofs, and weeds;
While, ever and ano, there falls
Huge heaps of houry moulder'd walls.

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Ever charming, ever new, When will the land cape tire the view! The fountain's fall, the river's flow, The woody vallies, warm and low; The windy fummit, wild and high, Roughly rushing on the sky! The pleafant feat, the ruin'd tow'r, The naked rock, the fhady bow'r; The town and village, dome and farm, Each give each a double charm, As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's fouthern fide,
Where the profpect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How close and fmall the hedges lie!
What ftreaks of meadows crofs the eye!
A ftep, methinks, may pals the stream,
So little diftant dangers feem:
So we mistake the future's face,
Eyed through Hope's deluding glafs.
As yon fummits foft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which, to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the fame coarfe way;
The prefent's ftill a cloudy day.

O inay I with myself agree,
And never covet what I fee!
Content me with a humble fhade,
My paflions tam'd, my wishes laid;
For while our withes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the foul:
'Tis thus the bufy beat the air,
And mifers gather weaith and care.

Now, c'en now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr fings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmar deep;
While the fhepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with mufic fill the fky,
Now, e'en now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye counts! be great who will; Search for peace with all your skili;




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AT length efcap'd from ev'ry human eye,
From ev'ry duty, ev'ry care,


That in my mournful thoughts might claim a fhare, Or force my tears their flowing ftream to dry; Beneath the gloom of this embow'ring fhade, "This lone retreat, for tender forrow made, I now may give my burden'd heart relief, And forth all my fores of grief; Of grief furpaffing every other woe, Far as the pureft blifs, the happieft love Can on th' ennobled mind bestow, Exceeds the vulgar joys that move Our grofs defires, inelegant and low. Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills, Ye high o'erfhadowing hills, Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green, Oft have you my Lucy feen!

Nor by yon fountain's fide,
Nor where its waters glide
Along the valley, can fhe now be found:
In all the wide-ftretch'd profpect's ample bound,
No more my mournful eye
Can aught of her elpy,

But the fad facred earth where her dear relics lie,
O fhades of Hagley, where is now your boaft?
Your bright inhabitant is loft.
You the preferr'd to all the
gay reforts
Where female vanity might with to thine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.
Her modeft beauties fhunn'd the public eye:

To your fequetter'd dales

And flower-embroider'd vales,

But never fhall you now behold her more:
Nor will the now, with fond delight,
And tafte refin'd, your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are thofe beauteous eyes in endless night,
Thofe beauteous eyes, where beaming us'd to fhine
Reafon's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice To hear her heavenly voice;

For her defpifing, when the deign'd to fing, The fweeteft fongfters of the spring; The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more: The nightingale was mute, And ev'ry fhepherd's flute Was caft in filent fcorn away, While all attended to her sweeter lay. Ye larks and linnets, now refume your fong: And thou, melodious Philomel, Again thy plaintive story tell; For death has ftopp'd that tuneful tongue. Whofe mufic could alone your warbling notes excel In vain I look around

O'er all the well-known ground, My Lucy's wonted footfteps to defcry; Where oft we us'd to walk; Where oft in tender talk We faw the fummer fun go down the fky;

From an admiring world the chofe to fly.
With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,
The filent paths of wifdom trod,
And banih'd every paffion from her breaft;

But thofe, the gentlcft and the best,
Whole holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal and the maternal love.

Sweet babes! who like the little playful fawns Were wont to trip along thefe verdant lawns, By your delighted mother's fide,

Who now your infant fteps fhall guide? Ah! where is now the hand, whofe tender care To every virtue would have form'd your youth, And ftrew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of truth?

O lofs beyond repair!

O wretched father! left alone,

To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!
How fhall thy weaken'd mind, opprefs'd with
And, drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, [wœe,
Perform the duties that you doubly owe,
Now the, alas! is gone,

From folly and from vice their helplefs age

to fave!

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The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of Virgil.

Nor then did Pindus or Caftalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount, your steps derain,
Nor in the Thefpian valleys did you play;
Nor then on Mincio's bank
Befet with offers dank,


Nor where Clitumnus


To every want, and every woe,
To guilt itfelf when in diftrefs,
The balm of pity would impart,
And all relief that bounty could bestow
E'en f the kid or lamb, thar pour'd its life
Beneath the bloody knife,
Her gentle tears would fall;

That, of your guardian care bereft,

To dire difeafe and death your darling fhould be Tears, from weet Virtue's fource,benevolentto all.


rolls his gentle

Nor where, through hanging woods,
Steep Anio + pours his floods,
Nor yet where Meles ‡ or Iliffus § ftray.
Il does it now befeem,

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Not only good and kind,

But ftrong and elevated was her mind:
A fpirit that with noble pride
Could look fuperior down
On Fortune's fmile or frown;
That could, without regret or pain,
To Virtue's loweft duty facrifice
Or Intereft or Ambition's highest prize ;
That, injur'd or offended, never tried
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,
But by magnanimous difdain.
A wit that, temperately bright,
With inoffenfive light

All pleafing fhone; nor ever pafs'd
The decent bounds that Wisdom's fober hand,
And fweet Benevolence's mild command,
And bathful Modely, before it caft.
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That nor too little nor too much believ'd;
That fcorn'd unjuft Sufpicion's coward fear,
And, without weakness, knew to be fincere.
Such Lucy was, when in her fairest days,
Amidft th' acclaim of univerfal praife.

Deathcame remorfelefs on,andfunk her to the tomb.
In life's and glory's freshest bloom,

So, where the filent ftreams of Liris glide,
In the foft bofom of Campania's vale,
When now the wint'ry tempefts all are fled,
And genial fummer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head;
From ev'ry branch the balmy flow'rets rife,
On ev'ry bough the golden fruits are seen;
With odours Tweet it fills the fmiling fkies,
The wood-nymphs tend it, and th' Idalian

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• The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of Propertius. The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where Horace had a villa.

The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, fuppofed to be born on its banks, is called Mellifigenes.

The Iliffus is a river at Athens.



And teach my forrows to relate Their melancholy tale fo well, As may e'en things inanimate, Rough mountain gaks, and defert rocks, to pity What were, alas! thy woes, compar'd to mine? To thee thy miftrefs in the blissful band Of Hymen never gave her hand; The joys of wedded love were never thine. In thy domeftic care

She never bore a share,

Nor with endearing art
Would heal thy wounded heart

Of every fecret grief that felter'd there:
Nor did her fond affection on the bed
Of ficknefs watch thee, and thy languid head
Whole nights on her unwearied arm fuftain,
And charm away the fenfe of pain:
Nor did the crown your mutual flame
With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name.
O beft of wives! O dearer far to me
Than when thy virgin charms
Were yielded to my arms;
How can my foul endure the lofs of thee?
How in the world, to me a defert grown,
Abandon'd and alone,

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Yet, O my foul! thy rifing inurmurs stay; Nor dare th' all-wife Difpofer to arraigu, Or against his fupreme decree With impious grief complain.

That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, Was his moit righteous will-and be that will obey'd.

Would thy fond love his grace to her control; And, in thefe low abodes of fin and pain,

Her pure exalted foul,

Unjustly, for thy partial good, detain ?
No-rather strive thy grovelling mind to raise
Up to that unclouded blaze,

That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
In which enthron'd the now with pity fees,
How frail, how infecure, how flight,
Is every mortal bliss;

Even Love itfelf, if rifing by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect stare,
Whofe fleeting joys fo foon muft end,
It does not to its fovereign good afcend.

Rife then, my foul, with hope elate,
And feek thofe regions of ferene delight,
Whofe peaceful path, and ever-open gate,
No feet but thofe of harden'd Guilt fhall mifs:
There Death himfelf thy Lucy fhall reftore;
There yield up all his pow'r ne'er to divide you


§ 96. A Winter Piece. ANON.

the fnow,

IT was a winter's evening, and faft came down [blow, And keenly o'er the wide heath the bitter blaft did When a damfel all forlorn, quite bewilder'd in her


on me,

Prefs'd her baby to her bofom, and fadlythus didfay: "Oh! cruel was my father, that fhut his door [fee; And cruel was my mother, that fuch a fight could And cruel is the wint'ry wind, that chills my heart with cold; [for gold! But crueller than all, the lad that left my love Huh, huh, my lovely baby, and warm thee in my breaft; [treft ! For, crucl as he is, did he know but how we fare, Ah, little thinks thy father how fadly we're difHe'd fhield us in his arms from this bitter piercing air.

Cold, cold, my dearcft jewel! thy little life is gone: Oh let my tears revive thee, fo warm that trickle down: [they fail : My tears that gush so warm, oh they freeze before Ah wretched, wretched mother! thou 'rt now bereft of all."

Then down fhe funk despairing upon the drifted fnow; [her woe: And, wrung with killing anguifh, lamented loud She kifs'd her baby's pale lips, and laid it by her fide; Then cast her eyes to heaven, then bow'd her head, and died.

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Who boafts unruly brats with birch to tame : They, grieven fore, in piteous durance pent, Aw'd by the pow'r of this relenticfs dame, And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent, For unkempt hair,or task unconn'd, are forelyfhent. And all in fight doth rife a birchen tree,

Which Learning near her little dome did stow, Whilome a twig of finall regard to fee,

Tho' now fo wide its waving branches flow, And work the fimple vaffals mickle woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, flow; But their limbs fhudder'd, and their pulfe beat And, as they look'd, they found their horror grew,

And fhap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.
So have I feen (who has not, may conceive)

A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bercave,

Of fport, of fong, of pleasure, of repaft: They ftart, they ftare, they wheel, they look aghaft;

Sad fervitude! Such comfortless annoy May no bold Briton's riper age e'er tafte! Ne fuperftition clog his dance of joy, Ne vifion empty, vain, his native blifs deftroy! Near to this dome is found a patch fo green,

On which the tribe their gambols do difplay ;) And at the door impris'ning board is feen,

Left weakly wights of fmaller fize fhould stray, Eager, perdie, to bafk in funny day!

The noifes intermix'd,which thence refound, Do Learning's little tenement betray;

Where fits the dame, difguis'd in look profound, [around. And eyes her Fairy throng, and turns her wheel Her cap, far whiter than the driven fnow,

Emblem right meet of decency does yield; Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe,

As is the hare-bell that adorns the field: And in her hand, for fceptre, fhe does wield Tway birchen fprays, with anxious fear entwin'd,

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A ruffet ftole was o'er her fhoulders thrown;

A ruffet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air; 'Twas fimple ruffet, but it was her own,

'Twas her own country bred the flock fofair; 'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare;

And, footh to fay, her pupils, rang'd around, Thro' pious awe did term it pafling rare;

For they in gaping wonderment abound, And think, no doubt, the been the greatest wight on ground.

Albeit, ne flatt'ry did corrupt her truth;

Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; Goody, good-woman, goilip, n'aunt, forfooth,

Or dame, the fole additions fhe did hear; Yet thefe fhe challeng'd, thefe he held right dear:

Ne would efteem him act as mought behove, Who fhould not honour'd eld with thefe revere;

For never title yet fo mean could prove, But there was cke a mind which did that title love. One ancient hen he took delight to feed,

The plodding pattern of the bufy dame, Which ever and anon, impell'd by need,

Into her fchool, begirt with chickens, came; Such favour did her paft deportment claim:

And if neglect had lavifh'd on the ground Fragment of bread, fhe would collect the fame; For well he knew, and quaintly could expound,

What fin it were to wake the fmalleft crumb fhe found.

Herbs too fhe knew, and well of each could fpeak,

That in her garden fipp'd the filv'ry dew, Where no vain flow'r difclos'd a gaudy ftreak, Put herbs for ufe and phyfic not a few, Of grey renown, within thofe borders grow; The tufted bafil, pun-provoking thyme, Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue,

The lowly gill, that never dares to climb, And more I fain would fing, difdaining here to rhyme.

Yet euphrafy may not be left unfung,

That gives dimeves to wander leagues around; And pungent radith, biting infant's tongue; And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's wound;

The fouth-weft wind, fouth, &c.


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