W Written 1750, HILE orient skies reftore the day, Amid the sprightly scenes of morn, Ye rural thanes that o'er the moffy down Does nature mean your joys alone to crown? 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 He finds his labour'd crops a prey ; He fees his flock-no more in circles feed; Nor yet, ye fwains, conclude That nature fmiles for you alone. Your bounded fouls, and your conceptions crude, The proud, the selfish boast disown; Of clinging infants, ask support in vain! But tho' the various harveft gild your plains, Or the warm hope of diftant gains Athirft ye praise the limpid ftream, 'tis true: It mimic no unpleafing fong, The limpid fountain murmurs not for you. |