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Ye envious winds, the cause display,

In whispers as ye blow,

Why did your treacherous gales convey
The poifon'd fhafts of woe?

Did he not plant the fhady bower,
Where you fo blithely meet?
The scented shrub, and fragrant flower,
To make your breezes fweet?

And muft he leave the wood, the field,
The dear Arcadian reign?

Can neither verfe nor virtue fhield
The guardian of the plain?

Muft he his tuneful breath refign,
Whom all the Mufes love?

That round his brow their laurels twine,
And all his fongs approve.

Preferve him, mild Omnipotence !

Our Father, King, and God,
Who clear'st the paths of life and fenfe,
Or flop'ft them at thy nod.

Bleft power, who calm'ft the raging deep,
His valued health restore,

Nor let the fons of Genius weep,

Nor let the good deplore.

But if thy boundless Wifdom knows

His longer date an ill,

Let not my foul a wifh difclofe

To contradict thy will.

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For happy, happy were the change,

For fuch a God-like mind,
To go where kindred spirits range,
Nor leave a with behind.

And though, to fhare his pleasures here,
King's might their state forego :
Yet must he feel such raptures there,
As none can tafte below.

VERSES left on a SEAT, the Hand unknown.

EARTH! to his remains indulgent be,

Who fo much care and cost beftow'd on thee !
Who crown'd thy barren hills with useful shade,
And chear'd wih tinkling rills each filent glade;
Here taught the day to wear a thoughtful gloom,
And there enliven'd Nature's vernal bloom.
Propitious earth! lie lightly on his head,
And ever on his tomb thy vernal glories spread !

CORYDON, A PASTORAL. To the Memory of WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Efq;

C

OME, fhepherds, we 'll follow the hearfe,
And fee our lov'd Corydon laid:
Though forrow may blemish the verse,
Yet let the fad tribute be paid.
They call'd him the pride of the plain ;
In footh, he was gentle and kind;
He mark'd in his elegant strain,
The Graces that glow'd in his mind.

On

On purpose he planted yon trees,

That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,
But never would rifle their cell.
Ye lambkins, that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat-and your master bemoan :
His mufic was artlefs and fweet,

His manners as mild as your own.
No verdure fhall cover the vale,

No bloom on the bloffoms appear;
The fweets of the foreft fhall fail,
And Winter difcolour the year.
No birds in our hedges fhall fing
(Our hedges fo vocal before,)
Since he that should welcome the spring,
Can greet the gay feafon no more.

His Phyllis was fond of his praise,
And poets came round in a throng;
They liften'd, and envy'd his lays,
But which of them equal'd his fong?
Ye fhepherds, henceforward be mute,
For loft is the pastoral strain;

So give me my Corydon's flute,

And thus-let me break it in twain.

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M. S. GULIELMI SHENSTONE!

Ah! Gulielme,
Hominum digniffime,
Amicorum integerrime,
Indole optimâ,

Moribus gratiffimis,

Eruditione diffusâ,

Ac corde quam maxime benigno

Prædite,

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Shalt pafs without thy meed, thou fon of peace
Who knew'ft, perchance, to harmonize thy fhades,
Still fofter than thy fong; yet was that fong
Nor rude, nor inharmonious, when attun'd
To paftoral plaint, or tale of flighted love.

CON

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