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So oft I have, the evening ftill,
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,
Now I gain the mountain's brow;
Old cattles on the cliffs arife,
Below me trecs unnumber'd life,
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
"Tis now the raven's bleak abode,
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,
O inay I with myself agree,
Now, c'en now, my joys run high,
Be full, ye counts! be great who will; Search for peace with all your skili;
AT length efcap'd from ev'ry human eye,
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,
But the fad facred earth where her dear relics lie,
To your fequetter'd dales
And flower-embroider'd vales,
But never fhall you now behold her more:
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.
But thofe, the gentlcft and the best,
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!
From folly and from vice their helplefs age
The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of Virgil.
Nor then did Pindus or Caftalia's plain,
Nor where Clitumnus
To every want, and every woe,
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,
Not only good and kind,
But ftrong and elevated was her mind:
All pleafing fhone; nor ever pafs'd
Deathcame remorfelefs on,andfunk her to the tomb.
So, where the filent ftreams of Liris glide,
• 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
Of every fecret grief that felter'd there:
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 ?
That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
Even Love itfelf, if rifing by degrees
Rife then, my foul, with hope elate,
§ 96. A Winter Piece. ANON.
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
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.
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.
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd;
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,
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.