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Come then, my LELIUS, come once more,
And fringe the melancholy shore

With roses and with bays,
While I each wayward fate accuse,
That envy'd his impartial muse

To sing your early praise.

While Philom to whose favour'd fight,
Antiquity, with full delight,

Her inmost wealth displays;
Beneath

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ruin's moulder'd wall Shall muse, and with his friend recall

The pomp of ancient days.

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Dean of Exeber afterw?s Bs. Carhile, and President the

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Here too shall Conway's name appear,
He prais'd the stream so lovely clear,

That shone the reeds among;
Yet clearness could it not disclose,
To match the rhetoric that flows

From Conway's polish'd tongue.

Ev'n Pitt, whose fervent periods roll
Resistless, thro’ the kindling soul

Of fenates, councils, kings!
Tho' form'd for courts, vouchsafd to rove
Inglorious, thro' the shepherd's grove,

And ope his bashful springs.

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But what can courts discover more,
Than these rude haunts have seen before,

Each fount and shady tree ?
Have not these trees and fountains seen
The pride of courts, the winning mien

Of peerless AYLESBURY?

And GRENVILLE, she whose radiant eyes
Have mark'd by now gradation rise

The princely piles of Stow;
Yet prais’d these unembellish'd woods,
And smild to see the babbling floods

Thro' fclf-worn mazes flow.

Say DARTMOUTH, who your banks adinird,
Again beneath your caves retir’d,

Shall grace the pensive shade ;
With all the bloom, with all the truth,
With all the sprightliness of youth,

By cool reflection sway'd ?

Brave, yet humane, shall Smith appear,
Ye sailors, tho' his name be dear,

Think him not yours alone:
Grant him in other spheres to charm,
The shepherds brcasts tho'mild are warm,

And ours are all his own,

O LYT

O LYTTELTON! my honour'd guest,
Could I describe thy generous breait,

Thy firm, yet polish'd mind;
How public love adorns thy name,
How fortune too conspires with fame;

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 |
While friends arriv'd, in circles gay,

To visit Damon's bow'r!

But now, with silent step, I range

Along some lonely shore ;
And Damon's bow'r, alas the change!
Is
gay

with friends no more.

Away to crowds and cities borne

In quest of joy they steer;
Whilft I, alas ! am left forlorn,

To weep the parting year!

O pensive Autumn! how I grieve

Thy sorrowing face to fee!'
When languid suns are taking leave

Of every drooping tree.

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Ah let me not, with heavy eye,

This dying scene survey !
Haste, Winter, haste; usurp the sky;

Compleat my bow'r's decay.

Ill can I bear the motley cast

Yon fickening leaves retain ;
That speak at once of pleasure past,

And bode approaching pain.

At home unblest, I gaze around,

My diftant scenes require ;
Where all in murky vapours drown'd

Are hamlet, hill, and spire.

Tho' THOMON, sweet descriptive bard !

Inspiring Autumn sung;
Yet how should we the months regard,

That stopp'd his flowing tongue ?

Ah luckless months, of all the rest,

To whose hard share it fell!
For sure he was the gentlest breast

That ever fung so well.

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And see, the swallows now disown

The roofs they lov'd before ;
Each, like his tuneful genius, Aown

To glad some happier shore,

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The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,

The sportsman's frantic deed;
While hounds and horns and yells unite

To drown the muse's reed.

Ye fields with blighted herbage brown!

Ye skies no longer blue !
Too much we feel from fortune's frown,

To bear these frowns from you.

Where is the mead's unsullied green?

The zephyr's balmy gale ?
And where sweet friendship’s cordial mien,

That brighten'd every vale?

What tho' the vine disclose her dyes,

And boast her purple store ;
Not all the vineyard's rich supplies

Can foothe our forrows more.

He! he is gone, whose moral strain

Could wit and mirth refine;
He! he is gone, whose social vein

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.

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