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 muse
To fing your early praise.

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

Her inmost wealth displays;

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 stream so lovely clear,
That shone the reeds among;

Yet clearness could it not disclose,
To match the rhetoric that flows
From CONWAY's polifh'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 rove
Inglorious, thro' the fhepherd's grove,

And ope his bashful springs.

But what can courts difcover more,

Than these rude haunts have seen before,
Each fount and shady tree?

Have not these 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 these 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 sprightliness of youth,
By cool reflection fway'd?

Brave, yet humane, fhall SMITн appear,
Ye failors, tho' his name be dear,

Think him not yours alone:

Grant him in other spheres to charm,

The fhepherds breasts tho' mild are warm,
And ours are all his own.

O LYT

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

'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 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 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.

N 3

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 fpeak 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 spire,

Tho' THOMSON, fweet defcriptive bard!
Inspiring Autumn fung;

Yet how fhould 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 gentleft 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

The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
The sportsman's frantic deed

While hounds and horns and yells unite

To drown the mufe's reed.

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

Too much we feel from fortune's frown,
To bear these 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 supplies
Can foothe our forrows more.

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