There fhall my plaintive fong recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe ;
And faster than the dropping fount,
I'll teach mine eyes to flow.
There leaves, in fpite of Autumn green,
Shall fhade the hallow'd ground;
And Spring will there again be seen,
To call forth flow'rs 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.
JEMMY DAWSON.
A BALLAD; written about the Time of his
Execution, in the Year 1745.
OME liften to my mournful tale,
Ye tender hearts and lovers dear ; Nor will you fcorn to heave a figh,
Nor need you blush to shed a tear.
And thou, dear KITTY, peerless maid,
Do thou a penfive ear incline; For thou canst weep at every woe; And pity every plaint-but mine. M 2
That he, in fylvan fhades, forlorn!
Muft wafte his chearless ev'n 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 him to lurk the lakes befide,
Where coots in rufhy 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;
The Duchefs of BRIDGEWATER, married to Sir RICHARD LYTTELTON.
That fhe, on all whofe motions wait
Diftinction, titles, rank and ftate,
Should rove where shepherds dwell.
But true it is, the generous mind,
By candour fway'd, by tafte refin'd,
Will nought but vice difdain
Nor will the breaft where fancy glows
Deem every flower a weed, that blows
Amid the defart plain.
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 ftrive, ye fhepherds, ftrive to find,
And weave the fairest of the kind,
The prime of all the fpring;
If haply thus yon lovely fair
May round her temples deign to wear
The trivial wreaths you bring.
O how the peaceful halcyons play'd,
Where'er the confcious lake betray'd
ATHENIA's placid mien!
How did the sprightlier linnets throng,
Where PAPHIA's charms requir'd the song, 'Mid hazel copfes green!
Young DAWSON was a gallant boy,
A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov'd again.
One tender maid, she lov'd him dear,
Of gentle blood the damfel came;
And faultlefs was her beauteous form,
And spotlefs was her virgin fame.
But curfe on party's hateful ftrife,
That led the favour'd youth astray;
The day the rebel clans appear'd,
O had he never seen that day!
Their colours, and their fash he wore,
And in the fatal drefs was found;
And now he must that death endure,
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.
How pale was then his true-love's cheek,
When JEMMY's fentence reach'd her ear!
For never yet did Alpine fnows
So pale, or yet so chill appear.
With faultering voice, the weeping said,
O DAWSON, monarch of my heart;
Think not thy death fhall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.
Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
And bring relief to JEMMY's woes ;
O GEORGE, without a pray'r for thee,
My orifons fhould never close.
The gracious prince that gave him life,
Would crown a never-dying flame;
And every tender babe I bore
Should learn to lifp the giver's name.
But tho' he should be dragg'd in fcorn
To yonder ignominious tree;
He fhall not want one conftant friend
To fhare the cruel fates' decree.
O then her mourning coach was call'd,
The fledge mov'd flowly on before;
Tho' borne in a triumphal car,
She had not lov'd her fav'rite more.
She follow'd him, prepar'd to view
The terrible behefts of law;
And the laft fcene of JEMMY's woes,
With calm and ftedfaft eye fhe faw.
Distorted was that blooming face,
Which he had fondly lov'd fo long;
And ftifled was that tuneful breath,
Which in her praife had fweetly fung.
|