O penfive Autumn! how I grieve
Thy forrowing face to fee!
When languid funs are taking leave
Of every drooping tree.

Ah let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey!

Hafte, Winter, hafte; ufurp the sky;
Compleat my bow'r's decay.

Ill can I bear the motley caft
Yon' fickening leaves retain;
That fpeak at once of pleasure past,
And bode approaching pain.

At home unbleft, I gaze around,

My distant scenes require;

Where all in murky vapours drown'd

Are hamlet, hill, and fpire.

Though Thomson, fweet defcriptive bard!

Infpiring Autumn sung:

Yet how fhould we the months regard,

That stopp'd his flowing tongue?

A a 4

Ah

Ah luckless months, of all the rest,
To whofe hard fhare it fell!

For fure he was the gentleft breast

That ever fung fo well.

And fee, the swallows now difown

The roofs they lov'd before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown
To glad fome happier shore.

The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
The sportsman's frantic deed

While hounds and horns and yells unite

To drown the Mufe's reed.

Ye fields with blighted herbage brown!
Ye fkies no longer blue !

Too much we feel from fortune's frown,
To bear thefe frowns from you.

Where is the mead's unfullied green?

The zephyr's balmy gale?

And where sweet friendship's cordial mien,

That brighten'd every vale?

What

What though the vine disclose her dyes,

And boast her purple store;

Not all the vineyard's rich fupplies

Can foothe our forrows more.

He! he is gone, whose moral ftrain
Could wit and mirth refine;

He! he is gone, whose focial vein
Surpass'd the pow'r of wine.

Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise,
In yon' fequefter'd grove,

To him a votive urn I raise ;

To him, and friendly love.

Yes there, my friend! forlorn and fad,
I grave your Thomson's name;

And there, his lyre; which fate forbad
To found your growing fame.

There shall my plaintive fong recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe;
And, faster than the dropping fount,

I'll teach mine eyes to flow.

The c

There leaves, in spite of Autumn, green,
Shall fhade the hallow'd ground;

And Spring will then again be seen,
To call forth flowers around.

But no kind funs will bid me share,
Once more, His focial hour;
Ah Spring! thou never canft repair
This lofs, to Damon's bow'r.

SONG S.

By the Same.

I.

Navale fring'd with woodland, where grottos abound,

And rivulets murmur, and echoes resound,

I vow'd to the Mufes my time and my care;
Since neither could win me the smiles of fair.

my

As freedom infpir'd me, I rang'd and I fung;

And Daphne's dear name never fell from my tongue: But if once a fmooth accent delighted my ear,

I should wish, unawares, that my Daphne might hear.

With

With fairest ideas my bofom I ftor'd;
Allufions to none but the nymph I ador❜d;
And the more I with study my fancy refin❜d,
The deeper impreffion fhe made on my mind.

Ah! whilft I the beauties of nature pursue,
I still must my Daphne's fair image renew:
The Graces have chofen with Daphne to rove,
And the Mufes are all in alliance with Love.

II. DAPHNE'S Vifit.

E birds! for whom I rear'd the grove,

YE

With melting lay falute my love:

My Daphne with your notes detain :
Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.

Ye flow'rs before her footsteps rife ;
Display at once your brightest dyes;
That fhe your opening charms
may fee:
Or what were all your charms to me?

Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flow'r,
And shed its odours round my bow'r:

Or never more, O gentle wind,

Shall I, from thee, refreshment find.

Ye