'Mongft things which on the surface sprung,
And fmall and feeble be.
No more the caviller cou'd fay,
Nor farther faults defcry;
For, as he upwards gazing lay,
An acorn, loosen'd from the ftay,
Fell down upon his eye.
Th' offended part with tears ran o'er,
As punish'd for the fin:
Fool! had that bough a pumpkin bore,
Thy whimseys must have work'd no more,
Nor fcull had kept them in.
In fuch a night, when every louder wind
Is to its diftant cavern fafe confin'd;
And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,
And lonely Philomel, ftill waking, fings;
Or from fome tree, fam'd for the owl's delight, 5
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand'rer right:
* Perhaps, however, in that cafe the gentleman would have felected a different place of repafe.
In fuch a night, when paffing clouds give place,
Or thinly vail the heav'ns mysterious face;
When in fome river, overhung with green,
The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen; to
When freshen'd grass now bears it felf upright,
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,
Whence fprings the woodbind, and the bramble-rofe,
And where the fleepy cowflip fhelter'd grows;
Whilft now a paler hue the foxglove takes,
Yet checquers ftill with red the dusky brakes:
When scatter'd glow-worms, but in twilight fine,
Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;
Whilft Salisb'ry ftands the teft of every light,
In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright:
When odours, which declin'd repelling day,
Thro' temp'rate air uninterrupted stray;
When darken'd groves their softest shadows wear,
And falling waters we distinctly hear;
When thro' the gloom more venerable shows 25
Some ancient fabrick, awful in repofe,
While funburnt hills their fwarthy looks conceal,
And fwelling haycocks thicken up the vale:
When the loos'd horse now, as his pasture leads,
Comes flowly grazing thro' th' adjoining meads, 30
Whose stealing pace, and lengthen'd shade we fear,
Till torn up forage in his teeth we hear :
When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,
And unmolested kine rechew the cud;
When curlews cry beneath the village-walls,
And to her ftraggling brood the partridge calls;
Their fhortliv'd jubilee the creatures keep,
Which but endures, whilst tyrant-man do's fleep:
When a fedate content the fpirit feels,
And no fierce light diflurbs, whilft it reveals; 40
But filent mufings urge the mind to feek
Something, too high for fyllables to speak;
Till the free foul to a compos'dness charm'd,
Finding the elements of rage difarm'd,
O'er all below a folemn quiet grown,
Joys in th' inferiour world, and thinks it like her own:
In fuch a night let me abroad remain,
Till morning breaks, and all's confus'd again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renew'd,
Or pleasures, feldom reach'd, again purfu'd.
BY THE HONORABLE MPS. MONK.
THOUGHTFUL alone, thro' barren waftes I ftray,
Slow ling'ring steps pace out the meafur'd way:
With jealous fear around my eyes I caft,
To fhun the paths by human footsteps trac'd.
Vain are all other coverts to conceal,
From fight of men the torments that I feel:
A lifelefs figure, and a joylefs mien'
Difclose the fire that fmother'd burns within.
The rocky hills, and ftreams, that filent flow, The groves, and dales, are confcious of my woe, to And only they the fatal fecret know.
But to howe'er remote a part I rove,
Or pathlefs wafte, or hill, or dale, or grove,
I'm ftill purfu'd by my companion, Love.
(Daughter of Robert vifcount Molefwerth, and wife to
George Monk, fq.) Born 16..; dyed 1715.
WROTE UPON HER DEATH-BED, AT BATH,
TO HER HUSBAND IN LONDON.
THOU, who doft all my worldly thoughts employ,
Thou pleafing fource of all my earthly joy,
Thou tenderest husband, and thou dearest friend,
To thee this fond, this last adieu I fend.
At length the conqu'ror Death afferts his right,
And will for ever veil me from thy fight;
He courts me to him with a chearful grace,
And not one terror clouds his meagre' face:
He promises a lasting rest from pain,
And fhews that all life's fleeting bliss is vain; 10 Th' eternal joys of heav'n he sets in view,
And tells me that no other joys are true.
But Love, fond Love, wou'd yet refift his power,
Wou'd yet a while defer the parting hour.
He brings thy mourning image to my eyes, 15
And wou'd obftruct my journey to the skies.
But fay, thou deareft, thou unwearied friend,
Say, fhou'dft thou grieve to fee my forrows end?
Thou know'ft a painful pilgrimage I've past,
And wouldst thou mourn that rest is come at last? 20
Rather rejoice to fee me shake off life,
And die, as I have liv'd, thy faithful wife.
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