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A PASTORAL ODE,

To the Honourable

Sir RICHARD LYTTELTON.

TH
Ta fullen mift had ftol'n from fight

HE morn difpens'd a dubious light,

A

Each pleafing vale and hill;

When DAMON left his humble bowers

To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers,
Or check his wandering rill.

Tho' school'd from fortune's paths to fly,
The fwain beneath each low'ring fky,
Would oft his fate bemoan;

That he, in fylvan fhades, forlorn!
Must waste his chearless even and morn,
Nor prais'd, nor lov'd, nor known.

No friend to fame's obftreperous noife,
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

Griev'd him to lurk the lakes befide,
Where coots in rushy dingles hide,
And moorcocks fhun the day;
While caitiff bitterns, undismay'd,
Remark the fwain's familiar fhade,
And scorn 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

That fhe, on all whofe motions wait
Distinction, titles, rank and ftate,

Should rove where fhepherds dwell.

But true it is, the generous mind,
By candour sway'd, by taste refin'd,
Will nought but vice difdain;
Nor will the breast where fancy glows
Deem every flower a weed, that blows

Amid the defart plain,

The Duchess of BRIDGEWATER, married to Sir RICHARD

LYTTELTON,

Befeems

1

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 strive, ye fhepherds, ftrive to find,
And weave the fairest of the kind,
The prime of all the spring;

If haply thus yon lovely fair

May round their temples deign to wear
The trivial wreaths you bring.

O how the peaceful halcyons play'd,
Where'er the conscious 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!

LO, DARTMOUTH on those banks reclin'd,

While bufy fancy calls to mind

The glories of his line;

Methinks my cottage rears its head,

The ruin'd walls of yonder shed,

As thro' enchantment, shine.

* $tsp. be, ar originally written, DENBIGH: Dartmonth is mention. But below, p. 180.

But who the nymph that guides their way?
Could ever nymph descend to stray
From HAGLEY'S fam'd retreat?
Elfe by the blooming features fair,
The faultlefs make, the matchless air,
'Twere CYNTHIA'S form compleat.

So would fome tuberofe delight,
That ftruck the pilgrim's wondering fight
'Mid lonely defarts drear;

All as at eve, the fovereign flower,
Difpenfes round its balmy power,
And crowns the fragrant year.

Ah, now no more, the fhepherd cry'd,
Muft I ambition's charms deride,

Her fubtle force difown;

No more of fawns or fairies dream,
While fancy, near each crystal stream,
Shall paint these forms alone.

By low-brow'd rock, or pathlefs mead,
I deem'd that splendour ne'er should lead
My dazled eyes astray;

But who, alas! will dare contend,

If beauty add, or merit blend

Its more illuftrious ray?

Jauns

VOL. I.

N

Nor

Nor is it long-O plaintive swain!
Since GUERNSEY faw, without disdain,
Where, hid in woodlands green,

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Scarce faded is the vernal flower,

Since STAMFORD left his honour'd bower
To fimile familiar here:

O form'd by nature to disclose

How fair that courtefy which flows

From focial warmth fincere.

Nor yet have many moons decay'd,
Since POLLIO fought this lonely fhade,
Admir'd this rural maze:

The nobleft breast that virtue fires,
The graces love, the mufe inspires,
Might pant for POLLIO's praise.

Say THOMSON here was known to rest,
For him yon vernal seat I dreft,

Ah, never to return!

In place of wit, and melting ftrains,
And focial mirth, it now remains

To weep befide his urn.

They were school-fellows.

Come

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