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O DE S,

SONGS,

BALL AD S, &c.

H 4

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Written 1750.

HILE orient skies restore the day,
And dew-drops catch the lucid ray;

Amid the sprightly scenes of morn,
Will aught the muse inspire?
Oh! peace to yonder clamorous horn
That drowns the facred lyre!

Ye rural thanes that o'er the moffy down
Some panting, timorous hare purfue;
Does nature mean your joys alone to crown?
Say, does fhe fmoothe her lawns for you?
you does echo bid the rocks reply,

For

And urg'd by rude constraint resound the jovial cry

?

[See

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn
The wretched fwain your sport furvey;
He finds his faithful fences torn,

He finds his labour'd crops a prey;

He fees his flock-no more in circles feed;
Haply beneath your ravage bleed,

And with no random curses loads the deed.

Nor yet, ye fwains, conclude

That nature smiles for you

alone;

Your bounded fouls, and your conceptions crude,

The proud, the selfish boast disown :

Yours be the produce of the foil;

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may it ftill reward your toil!

Nor ever the defencelefs train

Of clinging infants, afk fupport in vain!

But tho' the various harveft gild your plains,
Does the mere landscape feast your eye?

Or the warm hope of diftant gains
Far other cause of glee fupply?

Is not the red-streak's future juice
The fource of your delight profound,
Where Ariconium pours her gems profuse,
Purpling a whole horizon round?

Athirst ye praise the limpid ftream, 'tis true :
But tho', the pebbled fhores among,

It mimic no unpleafing fong,

The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.

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