Yon' bulfinch, with unvary'd tone,
Of cadence harsh, and accent fhrill,
Has brighter plumage to atone

For want of harmony and skill.

Yet, discontent with nature's boon,
Like man, to mimic art he flies;
On opera-pinions hoping foon

Unrivall'd he shall mount the fkies.

And while, to please some courtly fair,
He one dull tune with labour learns,
A well-gilt cage, remote from air,
And faded plumes, is all he earns !

Go, hapless captive! still repeat

The founds which nature never taught; Go, liftening fair! and call them fweet, Because you know them dearly bought.

Unenvy'd both! go hear and fing
Your ftudy'd mufic o'er and o'er ;
Whilst I attend th' inviting spring,
In fields where birds unfetter'd foar.

SONG.

betet tettete

SON G.

Written in Winter 1745.

By the Same.

1.

HE fun, his gladsome beams withdrawn,

THE

The hills all white with fnow,

Leave me dejected and forlorn!

Who can describe my woe?

But not the fun's warm beams could cheer,
Nor hills, though e'er fo green,
Unless my Damon should appear,

To beautify the scene.

II.

The frozen brooks, and pathless vales,

Disjoin my love and me!

The pining bird his fate bewails

On yonder leafless tree!

But what to me are birds or brooks

Or any joy that's near?

Heavy the lute, and dull the books,

While Damon is not here!

III.

The Laplander, who, half the year, in fhades of night,

Is wrapt

Mourns not, like me, his winter drear,

Nor wishes more for light.

But what were light, without my love,
Or objects e'er fo fine?

The flowery meadow, field, or grove,

If Damon be not mine?

IV.

Each moment, from my

dear away,

Is a long age of pain;

Fly swift, ye hours, be calm the day,
That brings my love again!

O hafte and bring him to my arms;

Nor let us ever part:

My breast shall beat no more alarms,

When I fecure his heart.

Written

Written to a near Neighbour in a tempestuous
Night, 1748.

By the Same.

I.

OU bid my Mufe not ceafe to fing,

YOU

You bid my ink not cease to flow;

Then say it ever shall be spring,

And boisterous winds fhall never blow:
When you fuch miracles can prove,
I'll fing of friendship, or of love.

II.

But now, alone, by storms oppreft,
Which harshly in my ears refound;

No cheerful voice with witty jest,

No jocund pipe to ftill the found;
Untrain'd befide in verfe-like art,
How shall my pen exprefs my heart?

III.

In vain I call th' harmonious Nine,

In vain implore Apollo's aid;
Obdurate, they refuse a line,

While spleen and care my rest invade,

Say, fhall we Morpheus next implore,
And try if dreams befriend us more?
IV.

Wifely at least he'll stop my pen,

And with his poppies crown my brow:
Better by far in lonesome den

To fleep unheard of- than to glow
With treach'rous wildfire of the brain,
Th' intoxicated poet's bane.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Written at a Ferme Ornee near Birmingham; Auguft 7th, 1749.

By the Same.

IS Nature here bids pleasing scenes arife,

Τ 'TIS

And wifely gives them Cynthio, to revise:
To veil each blemish; brighten every grace;
Yet ftill preserve the lovely Parent's face.

How well the bard obeys, each valley tells;
These lucid streams, gay meads, and lonely cells;
Where modeft Art in filence lurks conceal'd;
While Nature fhines, fo gracefully reveal'd,
That fhe triumphant claims the total plan;
And, with fresh pride, adopts the work of man,

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