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O D E.
DE.

O dear my Lucio is to me,

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So well our minds and tempers blend;

That seasons may for ever flee,

And ne'er divide me from my friend;
But let the favour'd boy forbear
To tempt with love my only fair.

O LYCON, born when every mufe,
When every grace benignant fmil'd,
With all a parent's breaft could chufe

To blefs her lov'd, her only child;
'Tis thine, fo richly grac❜d to prove
More noble cares, than cares of love.

Together we from early youth

Have trod the flowery tracks of time,
Together mus'd in fearch of truth,

O'er learned fage, or bard fublime;
And well thy cultur'd breast I know,
What wonderous treasure it can fhow.

Come then, refume thy charming lyre,
And fing fome patriot's worth fublime,
Whilft I in fields of foft defire,

Confume my fair and fruitless prime;
Whofe reed afpires but to difplay
The flame that burns me night and day.

O come!

Shall daily foothe thy ftudious mind,

The blue-ey'd nymphs of yonder floods

Shall meet and court thee to be kind;
And fame fits liftening for thy lays
To fwell her trump with Lucio's praise.

Like me, the plover fondly tries

To lure the sportsman from her nest,
And flutt'ring on with anxious cries,
Too plainly fhews her tortur'd breaft:
O let him, conscious of her care,
Pity her pains, and learn to fpare.

A PAS

A PASTORAL ODE,

To the Honourable

Sir RICHARD LYTTELTON.

THE

HE morn difpens'd a dubious light,
A fullen mist had ftol'n from fight

Each pleasing vale and hill;

When DAMON left his humble bowers

To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers,
Or check his wandering rill.

Tho' school'd from fortune's paths to fly,
The swain beneath each low'ring sky,
Would oft his fate bemoan;

That he, in fylvan fhades, forlorn!
Must waste his chearless even and morn,
Nor prais'd, nor lov'd, nor known.

No friend to fame's obftreperous noise,
Yet to the whispers of her voice,
Soft murmuring, not a foe:

The pleasures he thro' choice declin❜d,
When gloomy fogs deprefs'd his mind,
It griev'd him to forego.

Griev'd

Where coots in rushy dingles hide,
And moorcocks fhun the day;
While caitiff bitterns, undismay'd,
Remark the fwain's familiar fhade,
And fcorn to quit their prey.

But fee, the radiant fun once more
The brightening face of heaven restore,
And raise the doubtful dawn;

And more to gild his rural sphere,
At once the brightest train appear,
That ever trod the lawn.

Amazement chill'd the fhepherd's frame,
To think*BRIDGEWATER's honour'd name
Should grace his ruftic cell;
That she, on all whose motions wait
Distinction, titles, rank and state,

Should rove where fhepherds dwell.

But true it is, the generous mind,
By candour fway'd, by tafte refin'd,
Will nought but vice difdain;
Nor will the breast where fancy glows
Deem every flower a weed, that blows

Amid the defart plain.

*The Duchess of BRIDGEWATER, married to Sir RICHARD

LYTTELTON,

Befeems

Befeems it fuch, with honour crown'd,
To deal its lucid beams around,

Nor equal meed receive:

At moft fuch garlands from the field,
As cowflips, pinks, and panfies yield,
And rural hands can weave.

Yet strive, ye fhepherds, ftrive to find,
And weave the fairest of the kind,
The prime of all the spring;

If haply thus yon lovely fair

May round their temples deign to wear
The trivial wreaths you bring.

O how the peaceful halcyons play'd,
Where'er the conscious lake betray'd

ATHENIA'S placid mien !

How did the sprightlier linnets throng,
Where PAPHIA's charms requir'd the fong,
Mid hazel copfes green!

LO, DARTMOUTH on those banks reclin❜d,
While bufy fancy calls to mind

The glories of his line;

Methinks my cottage rears its head,

The ruin❜d walls of yonder shed,

As thro' enchantment, shine.

But

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