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SONG XVIII. Imitated from the French.

YES

ES, these are the scenes where with Iris I stray'd

But short was her sway for so lovely a maid !
In the bloom of her youth to a cloyster she run;
In the bloom of her graces, too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove
So fatal to beauty, so killing to love!

Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs and the plains; Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of

my pains; How many soft moments I spent in this grove ! How fair was my nymph! and how fervent my love! Be still tho', my heart ! thine emotion give o'er; Remember, the season of love is no more,

With her how I stray'd amid fountains and bow'rs,
Or loiter'd behind and collected the flow'rs!
Then breathless with ardor my fair-one pursu'd,
And to think with what kindness my.garland she view'd!
But be still, my fond heart! this emotion give o'er ;
Fain wouldst thou forget thou must love her nọ more.

The

The HALCYON.

W

HY o'er the verdant banks of ooze

Does yonder halcyon speed so fast; 'Tis all because she would not lose

Her fav’rite calm that will not last.

The sun with azure paints the skies,

The ftream reflects each Aow'ry, spray; And frugal of her time, she fies

To take her fill of love and play.

See her, when rugged Boreas blows,

Warm in some rocky cell remain ; To seek for pleasure, well she knows,

Would only then enhance the pain.

Descend, she cries, thou hated show'r,

Deform my limpid waves to-day,
For I have chose a fairer hour
To take

my

fill of love and play.

You too, my Silvia, fure will own

Life’s azure seasons swiftly roll:
And when our youth, or health is flown,

To think of love but shocks the soul.

Could

Could Damon but deserve thy charms,

As thou art Damon's only theme ;
He'd fly as quick to Delia's arms,

As yonder halcyon skims the stream.

Mr Shenstone wrote a Pan

He foregoing Verses, the laddiné ot which

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ODE.

O D E.

SS.

O dear my Lucio is to me,

So well our minds and tempers blend;
That seasons may for ever fee,

And ne'er divide me from my friend;
But let the favour'd boy forbear
To tempt with love my only fair.

O Lycon, born when every muse, ,

When every grace benignant smild, With all a parent's breast could chuse

To bless her loy'd, her only child ; 'Tis thine, so richly grac’d to prove More noble cares, than cares of love.

Together we from early youth

Have trod the flowery tracks of time, Together mus'd in search of truth,

O’er learned fage, or bard sublime ; And well thy cultur’d breast I know, What wonderous treasure it can show.

Come then, resume thy charming lyre,

And sing some patriot's worth sublime,
Whilst I in fields of soft desire,

Consume my fair and fruitless prime;
Whose reed aspires but to display
The flame that burns me night and day.

O come!

O come! the dryads of the woods

Shall daily soothe thy studious mind,
The blue-ey'd nymphs of yonder floods

Shall meet and court thee to be kind;
And fame sits listening for thy lays
To swell her trump with Lucio's praise.

Like me, the plover fondly tries

To lure the sportsman from her nest,
And Autt'ring on with anxious cries,

Too plainly shews her tortur'd breast :
O let him, conscious of her care,
Pity her pains, and learn to spare.

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