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* Frances Baughter o cobair, It Henry Skynne Son of Thomas Earl of Weymonth, Witze of Algerren Jeymour Bnke ifdmerset; and mother. + Eleva's k so 161 of Worte. and so well known in the publications of 11.74 Powe, taler le site et fonte

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W

HILE orient skies restore the day,

And dew-drops catch the lucid ray;
Amid the sprightly scenes of morn,

Will aught the muse inspire ?
Oh! peace to yonder clamorous horn

That drowns the sacred lyre !

Ye rural thanes that o'er the mosly down

Some panting, timorous hare pursue ;
Does nature mean your joys alone to crown?

Say, does she smoothe her lawns for
For you does echo bid the rocks reply,
And urg'd by rude constraint resound the jovial cry?

See

you?

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn

The wretched fwain your sport survey ;
He finds his faithful fences torn,

He finds his labour'd crops a prey ;
He sees his flock-no more in circles feed;

Haply beneath your ravage bleed,
And with no random curfes loads the deed.

Nor

yet, ye swains, conclude That nature smiles for you alone; Your bounded souls, and your conceptions crude,

The proud, the selfish boast disown:
Yours be the produce of the soil;
O may it still reward your toil ! !

Nor ever the defenceless train
Of clinging infants, ask support in vain !

But tho' the various harvest gild your plains,

Does the mere landscape feast your eye?
Or the warm hope of distant gains

Far other cause of glee supply?
Is not the red-streak's future juice

The source of your delight profound,
Where Ariconium pours

her

genis profuse, Purpling a whole horizon round? Athirst ye praise the limpid stream, 'tis true :

But tho', the pebbled shores among,

It mimic no unpleasing song,
The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.

3

Unpleas'd

Unpleas'd ye see the thickets bloom,
Unpleas'd the spring her flowery robe resume ;

Unmoy'd the mountain's airy pile,
The dappled mead without a smile.

O let a rural conscious muse,
For well she knows, your froward sense accufe:

Forth to the solemn oak you bring the fquare, And span the massy trunk, before you cry, 'tis fair.

Nor yet ye learn'd, nor yet ye courtly train ,

If haply from your haunts ye stray
To waste with us a summer's day,
Exclude the taste of every swain,

Nor our untutor'd fenfe disdain :
'Tis nature only gives exclusive right

To relish her supreme delight;

She, where she pleases kind or coy,
Who furnishes the scene, and forms us to enjoy,

Then hither bring the fair ingenuous mind,
By her auspicious aid refin'd;
Lo! not an hedge-row hawthorn blows,

Or humble hare-bell paints the plain,
Or valley winds, or fountain flows,

Or purple heath is ting’d in vain :
For such the rivers dash their foaming tides,

The mountain swells, the dale subsides;
Ev’n thriftless furze detains their wandering sight,
And the rough barren rock grows pregnant with delight.

With

With what suspicious fearful care

The sordid wretch secures his claim,
If haply some luxurious heir

Should alienate the fields that wear his name !
What scruples left some future birth

Should litigate a span of earth! Bonds, contracts, feoffments, names unmeet for profe, The towering muse endures not to disclofe ;

Alas! her unrevers'd decree,

More comprehensive and more free,
Her lavish charter, taste, appropriates all we fee,

Let gondolas their painted Aags unfold,
And be the solemn day enrolld,
When, to confirm his lofty plea,

In nuptial fort, with bridal gold,
The grave Venetian weds the sea :
Each laughing muse derides the vow;

Ev'n Adria scorns the mock embrace,
To some lone hermit on the mountain's brow,

Allotted, from his natal hour,
With all her myrtle shores in dow'r.
His breast to admiration prone

Enjoys the smile upon her face,

Enjoys triumphant every grace,
And finds her more his own.

Fatigu'd

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