Hark to yonder milk-maid finging,
Chearly o'er the brimming pail;
Cowflips all around her springing
Sweetly paint the golden vale.

Never yet did courtly maiden
Move so sprightly, look fo fair;
Never breaft with jewels laden
Pour a fong fo void of care.

Would indulgent heav'n had granted
Me fome rural damfel's part!

All the empire I had wanted

Then had been my shepherd's heart.

Then, with him, o'er hills and mountains,
Free from fetters, might I rove:

Fearless tafte the crystal fountains ;

Peaceful fleep beneath the grove.

Rufticks had been more forgiving;
Partial to my virgin bloom:
None had envy'd me when living;
None had triumph'd o'er my tomb.

VERSES

VERSES written towards the close of the Year 1748. to WILDIAM LYTTELTON, Efq;

By the Same.

"OW blithely pass'd the fummer's day!

HOW

How bright was every flow'r!

While friends arriv'd, in circles gay,

To vifit Damon's bow'r.

But now, with filent ftep, I range
Along fome lonely shore;

And Damon's bow'r, alas the change!
gay with friends no more.

Is

Away to crowds and cities borne

In queft of joy they steer;
Whilft I alas! am left forlorn,
To weep the parting year !

O penfive Autumn! how I grieve
Thy forrowing face to fee!
When languid funs are taking leave
Of every drooping tree.

Ah let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey!

Hafte, Winter, hafte; ufurp the sky;
Compleat my bow'r's decay.

Y 4

Ill can I bear the motley caft
Yon' fickening leaves retain ;
That speak at once of pleasure past,
And bode approaching pain.

At home unbleft, I gaze around,
My distant scenes require;
Where all in murky vapours drown'd
Are hamlet, hill, and spire.

Tho' Thomson, fweet defcriptive bard!
Infpiring Autumn fung;

Yet how should we the months regard,
That stop'd his flowing tongue?

Ah luckless months, of all the rest,
To whofe hard share it fell!
For fure he was the gentlest breast
That ever sung so well.

And fee, the swallows now difown

The roofs they lov'd before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown
To glad fome happier fhore.

The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
The sportsman's frantick deed;
While hounds and horns and yells unite,

To drown the mufe's reed.

Ye

Ye fields with blighted herbage brown!
Ye skies no longer blue!

Too much we feel from fortune's frown,
To bear thefe frowns from you.

Where is the mead's unfullied green?
The zephyr's balmy gale?

And where sweet friendship's cordial mien,
That brighten'd every vale?

What tho' the vine disclose her dyes,

And boast her purple store;
Not all the vineyard's rich fupplies
Can foothe our forrows more.

He! he is gone, whose moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine;

He! he is gone, whose focial vein
Surpafs'd the pow'r of wine.

Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise,

In yon' fequefter'd grove,

To him a votive urn I raise;

To him, and friendly love,

Yes there, my friend! forlorn and fad,
I grave your Thomson's name;
And there, his lyre; which fate forbad
To found your growing fame.

There

There fhall my plaintive fong recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe;
And, fafter than the dropping fount,
I'll teach mine eyes to flow.

There leaves, in spite of Autumn, green,
Shall fhade the hallow'd ground;
And Spring will there again be seen,
To call forth flowers around.

But no kind funs will bid me fhare,
Once more, His focial hour;
Ah Spring! thou never canst repair
This lofs, to Damon's bow`r.

****

SONG S.

By the Same.

I.

N a vale fring'd with woodland, where grottos abound,

IN

And rivulets murmur, and echoes refound,

I vow'd to the Muses my time and my care;

Since neither could win me the fmiles of my fair,

As freedom infpir'd me, I rang'd and I fung;
And Daphne's dear name never fell from my tongue :
But if once a smooth accent delighted my ear,
A fhould wish, unawares, that my Daphne might hear.