A N Irregular O D E after SICKNESS, 1749. Melius, cum venerit ipfa, canemus. 100 long a stranger to repose, T At length from pain's abhorred couch I rofe; To court once more the balmy breeze, 'Twas from a bank with panfies gay feeble tongue Rais'd by the scene my "Come, gentle air! my languid limbs restore, For For fure I heard the tender fighs, I feem'd to join the plaintive cries Of hapless youths, who thro' the myrtle grove To that unjoyous clime, Torn from the fight of these etherial skies; Come, gentle air! and, while the thickets bloom, The fons of earth, the vulgar crew, Anxious for futile gains beneath me ftray, And feek with erring ftep contentment's obvious way. Come, gentle air! and thou celeftial mufe, Thy genial flame infufe; Enough to lend a penfive bofom aid, Enough to rear fuch ruftic lays As foes may flight, but partial friends will praife." The The gentle air allow'd my claim; And, more to chear my drooping-frame, She mix'd the balm of opening flowers; Such as the bee, with chymic powers, From HYBLA's fragrant hills inhales, Or fcents SABEA's blooming vales. But ah! the nymphs that heal the penfive mind, By prescripts more refin'd, Neglect their votary's anxious moan : Oh, how should they relieve?-the mufes all were flown, By flowery plain, or woodland fhades, I leave behind my native mead, To range where zeal and friendship lead, Ah foolish man! to feek the tuneful maids Scarce have my footsteps prefs'd the favour'd ground, When founds etherial ftrike my ear; At once celeftial forms appear; My fugitives are found! The mufes here attune their lyres, 3 Here, Here, hand in hand, with carelefs mien, But whilft I wander'd o'er a scene so fair, Lurks not a stone enrich'd with lively stain, And fome had bent the wildering maze, And taught the portrait where to glow; Affign'd the laurel'd bust a place, And given to learning all the pomp of show. Ah! woe is me, faid I; And's hilly circuit heard my cry, Have And lavish'd all my little store And scollop every winding fhore; The saphire stream that down my valley flows? Ah! lovely treacherous maids! To quit unfeen my votive shades, Had torn me from the breezy plain, To fwell the fong, or plan the fhade; Her native genius guides her hand, Thus I my rage and grief display; Till LUXBOROUGH lead the way. Written |