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Come then, my LELIUS, come once more,
With roses and with bays,
To sing your early praise.
While Philom to whose favour'd fight,
Her inmost wealth displays;
ruin's moulder'd wall Shall muse, and with his friend recall
The pomp of ancient days.
Dean of Exeber afterw?s Bs. Carhile, and President the
Anli quaran ke tiety.
Here too shall Conway's name appear,
That shone the reeds among;
From Conway's polish'd tongue.
Ev'n Pitt, whose fervent periods roll
Of fenates, councils, kings!
And ope his bashful springs.
But what can courts discover more,
Each fount and shady tree ?
Of peerless AYLESBURY?
And GRENVILLE, she whose radiant eyes
The princely piles of Stow;
Thro' fclf-worn mazes flow.
Say DARTMOUTH, who your banks adinird,
Shall grace the pensive shade ;
By cool reflection sway'd ?
Brave, yet humane, shall Smith appear,
Think him not yours alone:
And ours are all his own,
O LYTTELTON! my honour'd guest,
Thy firm, yet polish'd mind;
The song should please mankind.
VERSES written towards the close of the Year
1748, to William LYTTELTON, Esq;
OW blithely pass’d the summer's day!
How bright was every fow'r |
To visit Damon's bow'r!
But now, with silent step, I range
Along some lonely shore ;
with friends no more.
Away to crowds and cities borne
In quest of joy they steer;
To weep the parting year!
O pensive Autumn! how I grieve
Thy sorrowing face to fee!'
Of every drooping tree.
Ah let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey !
Compleat my bow'r's decay.
Ill can I bear the motley cast
Yon fickening leaves retain ;
And bode approaching pain.
At home unblest, I gaze around,
My diftant scenes require ;
Are hamlet, hill, and spire.
Tho' THOMON, sweet descriptive bard !
Inspiring Autumn sung;
That stopp'd his flowing tongue ?
Ah luckless months, of all the rest,
To whose hard share it fell!
That ever fung so well.
And see, the swallows now disown
The roofs they lov'd before ;
To glad some happier shore,
The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
The sportsman's frantic deed;
To drown the muse's reed.
Ye fields with blighted herbage brown!
Ye skies no longer blue !
To bear these frowns from you.
Where is the mead's unsullied green?
The zephyr's balmy gale ?
That brighten'd every vale?
What tho' the vine disclose her dyes,
And boast her purple store ;
Can foothe our forrows more.
He! he is gone, whose moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine;
Surpass’d the pow'r of wine.
Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise,
In yon fequefter'd grove, To him a votive urn I raise ; To him, and friendly love.