LO, DARTMOUTH on those banks reclin❜d,
While bafy fancy calls to mind

The glories of his line!

Methinks my cottage rears its head,
The ruin'd walls of yonder fhed,

As thro' enchantment, shine.

But who the nymph that guides their way?
Could ever nymph defcend to stray
From HAGLEY'S fam'd retreat?
Elfe by the blooming features fair,
The faultless make, the matchless air,
"Twere CYNTHIA's form compleat.

So would fome tuberofe delight,
That struck the pilgrim's wondering fight
'Mid lonely defarts drear;

All as at eve, the fovereign flower
Difpenfes round its balmy power,
And crowns the fragrant year.

Ah, now no more, the fhepherd cry'd,
Muft I ambition's charms deride,
Her fubtle force difown ;

No more of fawns or fairies dream,
While fancy, near each crystal stream,
Shall paint these forms alone.

By low-brow'd rock, or pathlefs mead,
I deem'd that splendour ne'er fhould lead
My dazzled eyes aftray;

But

But who, alas! will dare contend,
If beauty add, or merit blend
Its more illuftrious ray ?

Nor is it long--O plaintive fwain!
Since GUERNSEY faw, without difdain,
Where, hid in woodlands green,

*

The partner of his early days,

And once the rival of his praise,
Had ftol'n thro' life unseen.

Scarce faded is the vernal flower,

Since STAMFORD left his honour'd bower.

To fmile familiar here:

O form'd by nature to disclose

How fair that courtesy which flows

From focial warmth fincere !

Nor

yet have many moons decay'd, Since POLLIO fought this lonely fhade, Admir'd this rural maze:

The nobleft breast that virtue fires,
The graces love, the mufe infpires,
Might pant for POLLIO's praife.

Say THOMSON here was known to reft;
For him yon vernal feat I dreft,

Ah, never to return!

In place of wit, and melting ftrains,

And focial mirth, it now remains

To weep

befide his urn.

Come

They were fchool-fellows.

Come then, my LELIUS, come once more,
And fringe the melancholy shore
With roses and with bays;
While I each wayward fate accufe,
That envy'd his impartial mufe,
To fing your early praise.

While PHILO, to whose favour'd fight,
Antiquity, with full delight,

Her inmoft wealth difplays,

Beneath yon ruin's moulder'd wall
Shall mufe, and with his friend recall
The pomp of ancient days.

Here too fhall CONWAY's name appear,
He prais'd the ftream fo lovely clear,
That fhone the reeds among;
Yet clearness could it not disclose,
To match the rhetoric that flows
From CONWAY's polish'd tongue.

Ev'n PITT, whofe fervent periods roll
Refiftless, thro' the kindling foul

Of fenates, councils, kings!

Tho' form'd for courts, vouchfaf'd to roye Inglorious, thro' the shepherd's grove, And ope his bafhful springs.

But what can courts difcover more,

Than these rude haunts have seen before,

Each fount and shady tree &

Have not thefe trees and fountains feen
The pride of courts, the winning mien
Of peerless AYLESBURY?

And GRENVILLE, fhe whofe radiant eyes
Have mark'd by flow gradation rife
The princely piles of Srow;
Yet prais'd thefe unembellifh'd woods,
And fmil'd to fee the babbling floods
Thro' felf-worn mazes flow.

Say DARTMOUTH, who your banks admir'd,
Again beneath your caves retir'd,

Shall grace the penfive fhade;

With all the bloom, with all the truth,
With all the sprightlinefs of youth,
By cool reflection fway'd?

Brave, yet humane, fhall SMITH appear; ¦
Ye failors, tho' his name be dear,

Think him not yours alone:
Grant him in other spheres to charm;
The shepherds' 'breasts tho' mild are warm,
And ours are all his own.

O LYTTELTON! my honour'd guest,
Could I defcribe thy generous breast,
Thy firm, yet polish'd mind;

How public love adorns thy name,
How fortune too confpires with fame;

The fong fhould please mankind.

VERSES

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

H

OW blithely pafs'd the fummer's day!
How bright was every flow'r !

While friends arriv'd, in circles gay,

To vifit DAMON's bow'r!

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

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

Away to crowds and cities borne
In queft of joy they fteer;
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.