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Irregular O DE after Sickness, 1749.
Melius, cum venerit ipsa, canemus.
Too long a stranger to repose,
And wander'd forth alone;
Ere yet their charms were flown.
'Twas from a bank with pansies gay
The sun's forgotten beams :
Of yon refulgent streams!
Rais’d by the scene my feeble tongue
“ Come, gentle air! my languid limbs restore,
For For sure I heard the tender sighs,
I seem'd to join the plaintive cries Of hapless youths, who thro' the myrtle grove Bewail for ever their unfinish'd love: : To that unjoyous clime, Torn from the sight of these etherial skies; Debarr'd the lustre of their Delia's eyes; · And banish'd in their prime.
Come, gentle air! and, while the thickets bloom,
Convey the jasmin's breath divine,
Nor spare the sweet-leaft eglantine.
Till health her wonted charms explain,
The fons of earth, the vulgar crew,
Come, gentle air ! and thou celestial muse,
Thy genial flame infuse ; Enough to lend a pensive bofom aid,
And giid retirement's gloomy shade;
Enough to rear such rustic lays As foes may slight, but partial friends will praise."
The gentle air allow'd my claim ;
Or scents Sabea's blooming vales.
By prescripts more refind, Neglect their votary's anxious moan : Oh, how should they relievę?--themuses all were flown
By flowery plain, or woodland shades,
When lo! in happier hour,
To visit L*** *'s honour'd bower.
Scarce have my footsteps press’d the favour'dground,
When founds etherial strike my ear;
My sugitives are found !
Here, hand in hand, with careless mien,
But whilft I wanderd o'er a scene so fair,
Too well at one survey I trace,
Had long employ'd their care.
Blooms not a flower amid the vernal store,
Glows not a shell on Adria's rocky shore, But torn methought from native lands or seas, From their arrangement, gain fresh pow'r to please.
And some had bent the wildering maze,
Bedeckt with every shrub that blows;
To shield th’ illustrious dame's repose :
And taught the portrait where to glow;
Or ʼmid the decorated space,
Assign’d the laureld bust a place,
And now from every task withdrawn,
Ah! woe is me, said I;
Have I for this, with labour (trove,
And lavish'd all my little store To fence for you my shady grove,
And scollop every winding shore ; And fringe with every purple rose, The saphire stream that down my valley flows ?
Ah! lovely treacherous maids !
By genuine fancy fir’d,
Than ever you inspir’d.
Till LUXBOROUGH lead the way.