Come then, my LELIUS, come once more, With roses and with bays, While PHILO, to whose favour'd fight, Antiquity, with full delight, Her inmost wealth displays; Beneath yon ruin's moulder'd wall Here too fhall CONWAY's name appear, That fhone the reeds among; Ev'n PITT, whofe fervent periods roll Of fenates, councils, kings! Tho' form'd for courts, vouchfaf'd to rove 25 Cha Lytleton Dean of Exeter aftern?s Bp. of Carhile, ands Antiquarian So =ciety. But what can courts discover more, Than these rude haunts have seen before,. Have not these trees and fountains feen The pride of courts, the winning mien And GRENVILLE, fhe whofe radiant eyes Say DARTMOUTH, who your banks adınir'd, Again beneath your caves retir'd, Shall grace the penfive fhade; With all the bloom, with all the truth, By cool reflection sway'd? Brave, yet humane, fhall SMITH appear, Think him not yours alone: Grant him in other fpheres to charm, The fhepherds breafts tho' mild are warm, OLYT O LYTTELTON! my honour'd gueft, VERSES written towards the clofe of the Year 1748, to WILLIAM LYTTELTON, Efq; OW blithely pafs'd the fummer's day! How H How bright was every flow'r While friends arriv'd, in circles gay, To vifit DAMON's bow'r! But now, with filent ftep, I range And DAMON's bow'r, alas the change! Away to crowds and cities borne O penfive Autumn! how I grieve When languid funs are taking leave Of every drooping tree. Ah! Ah let me not, with heavy eye, Haste, Winter, haste; ufurp the sky; Ill can I bear the motley caft At home unbleft, I gaze around, Tho' THOMSON, fweet defcriptive bard! Yet how should we the months regard, Ah luckless months, of all the rest, That ever fung fo well. And fee, the swallows now difown To glad fome happier fhore, The The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright, While hounds and horns and yells unite Ye fields with blighted herbage brown! Too much we feel from fortune's frown, Where is the mead's unfullied green? And where sweet friendship's cordial mien, What tho' the vine disclose her dyes, And boast her purple store; He! he is gone, whose moral ftrain Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise, In yon fequefter'd grove, To him a votive urn I raise; Yes |