How can they of humble station
Vainly blame the pow'rs above?
Or accuse the difpenfation

Which allows them all to love?

Love like air is widely given;

Pow'r nor chance can these restrain Trueft, nobleft gifts of heaven! Only pureft on the plain!

Peers can no fuch charms discover,
All in stars and garters drest,
As, on Sundays, does the lover
With his nofegay on his breast.

Pinks and roses in profufion,

Said to fade when Chloe's near; Fops may use the fame allufion, But the fhepherd is fincere.

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 fo fprightly, look fo fair;
Never breast 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 fhepherd'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.

URVEY, my fair! that lucid ftream

SUR

Adown the smiling valley ftray;

Would art attempt, or fancy dream,

To regulate its winding way?

So

So pleas'd I view thy shining hair
In loose dishevel'd ringlets flow:
Not all thy art, not all thy care

Can there one fingle grace beftow.

Survey again that verdant hill,

With native plants enamel'd o'er ; Say, can the painter's utmost skill Inftruct one flow'r to please us more?

As vain it were, with artful dye,

To change the bloom thy cheeks difclofe; And oh may Laura, ere fhe try,

With fresh vermilion paint the rose.

Hark, how the wood-lark's tuneful throat Can every study'd grace excel;

Let art constrain the rambling note,

And will fhe, Laura, please so well ?

Oh ever keep thy native ease,
By no pedantic laws confin'd!

For Laura's voice is form'd to please,
So Laura's words be not unkind.

VERSES written towards the clofe of the Year 1748, to WILLIAM LYTTELTON, Efq;

By the Same.

H How bright was every flow'r!

OW blithely pafs'd the fummer's day!

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!

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

VOL. IV.

Y

Ah

Ah let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey!
Hafte, Winter, hafte; ufurp the sky;
Compleat my bow'r's decay.

Ill can I bear the motley caft
Yon' fickening leaves retain ;
That speak at once of pleasure paft,
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 fpire.

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

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

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

And fee, the fwallows now difown

The roofs they lov'd before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown

To glad fome happier fhore.

The