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I Nept not long beneath yon rural bow'rs;
And lo! my crook with flow'rs adorn'd I see : Has gentle Delia bound my crook with Aow'rs,
And need I, FLORIO, name my hopes to thee?
To a friend, on some fight occafion estranged from bim,
EALTH to my friend, and many a chearful day
Around his feat may peaceful shades abide ! Smooth flow the minutes, fraught with similes, away,
And, 'till they crown our union, gently glide.
Ah me! too swiftly fleets our vernal bloom !
Lost to our wonted friendship, loft to joy! Soon may thy breast the cordial wish resume,
Ere wintry doubt its tender warmth destroy.
Say, were it ours, by fortune's wild command,
By chance to meet beneath the torrid zone ; Wou'dft thou reject thy Damon's plighted hand ?
Wou'dft thou with scornthy once lov’d friend disown?
Life is that stranger land, that alien clime:
Shall kindred souls forego their social claim ? Launch'd in the vast abyss of space and time,
Shall dark suspicion quench the gen'rous Aame?
Myriads of fouls, that knew one parent mold,
See sadly sever'd by the laws of chance !
But we have met—where ills of every form,
Where passions rage, and hurricanes descend : Say, shall we nurse the rage, assist the storm ?
And guide them to the bofom- of a friend ?
Yes, we have met--thro' rapine, fraud, and wrong:
Might our joint aid the paths of peace explore ! Why leave thy friend amid the boist'rous throng,
Ere death divide us, and we part no more?
For oh! pale sickness warns thy friend away!
For me no more the vernal roses bloom ! I see stern fate his ebon wand display ;
And point the wither'd regions of the tomb.
Then the keen anguish from thine eye shall ftarts
Sad as thou follow'st my untimely bier ; 66 Fool that I was-if friends so soon must part,
“ To let suspicion intermix a fear."
Declining an invitation to visit foreign countries, he takes occasion to intimate the advantages of bis own.
To lord TEMPLE.
HILE others lost to friendship, lost to love,
Waste their best minutes on a foreign strand, Be mine, with British nymph or swain to rove,
And court the genius of my native land.
Deluded youth! that quits these verdant plains,
To catch the follies of an alien foil ! To win the vice his genuine foul disdains,
Return exultant, and import the spoil !
In vain he boasts of his detested prize ;
No more it blooms to British climes convey'd, Cramp'd by the impulse of ungenial skies,
See its fresh vigour, in a moment, fade !
Th’exotic folly knows its native clime ;
An aukward stranger, if we waft it o'er ; Why then these toils, this costly waste of time, To spread soft poison on our happy shore?
I covet not the pride of foreign looms;
In search of foreign modes I scorn to rove ; Nor, for the worthless bird of brighter plumes,
Wou'd change the meanest warbler of my grove.
No distant clime shall servile airs impart,
Or form these limbs with pliant ease to play ; Trembling I view the Gaul's illusive art,
That steals my lov'd rufticity away.
'Tis long since freedom fled th' Hesperian clime ;
Her citron groves, her flow'r-embroider'd shore; She saw the British oak aspire sublime,
And soft CAMPANIA's olive charms no more.
Let partial suns mature the western mine,
To shed its lustre o'er th' Iberian maid ; Mien, beauty, shape, O native soil, are thine ;
Thy peerless daughters ask no foreign aid.
Let * Ceylon's envy'd plant perfume the seas,
Till torn to season the Batavian bowl;
Nor need a drug to meliorate the soul.