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ODE S,

SONGS,

BALL A D S, &c.

H 4

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Written 1750,

HILE orient skies reftore 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 pursue;

Does nature mean your joys alone to crown?
Say, does the fmoothe her lawns for you?

For you does echo bid the rocks reply,

And urg'd by rude constraint refound the jovial ery?

See

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn
The wretched fwain your fport 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 fmiles for you alone.

Your bounded fouls, and your conceptions crude,

The proud, the selfish boast disown;
Yours be the produce of the foil;
O may it still reward your toil!
Nor ever the defenceless train

Of clinging infants, ask support in vain!

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

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

Athirft ye praise the limpid ftream, 'tis true:
But tho', the pebbled shores among,

It mimic no unpleafing fong,

The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.

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