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Ere the chill winter of our days arrive,

No more she paints the breait from passion free; I feel, I feel one loitering with survive

Ah need I, FLOR 10, name that wilh to thee?

The star of Venus ushers in the day,

The first, the loveliest of the train that thine ! The far of Venus lends her brightest ray,

When other stars their friendly beams refign.

Still in my breast one soft defire remains,

Pure as that star, from guilt, from int'rest free, Has gentle Delia trip'd across the plains,

And need I, FĻORIO, name that wilh to thec?

While, clay'd to find the scenes of life the same,

I tune with carelefs hand my languid lays; Some secret impulse wakes my former flame,

And fires my strain with hope of brighter days.

I Nept not long beneath yon rural bow'rs';

And lo! my crook with flow'rs adorn'd I see: Has gentle Delra bound my crook with flow'rs,

And need I, FLOR19, name my hopes to thee?

ELEGY

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EL EGY XIII.

To a friend, on some light occafion estranged

from him.

TEALTH to my friend, and many a chearful day

Smooth flow the minutes, fraught with smiles, away,

And, 'till they crown our union, gently glide.

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Ah me! too swiftly fleets our vernal bloom!

Loft to our wonted friendship, loft to joy! Soon may thy breast the cordial with resume,

Ere wintry doubt its tender warmth dettroy.

Say, were it ours, by fortune's wild command,

By chance to meet beneath the torrid zone ; Wou’dst thou reject thy Damon's plighted hand ?

Wou'dt tủou with scorn thy once lov'd friend disown?

Life is that stranger land, that alien clime:

Shall kindred fouls forego their social claim? Launch'd in the yaft abyss of space and time,

Shall dark fufpicion quench the gen'rous flame? Myriads of souls, that knew one parent mold,

See sadly sever'd by the laws of chance ! Myriads, in time's perennial lift enroll'd,

Forbid by fate to change one tranfient glance !

But

that we have met where ills of every form,

Where paflions rage, and hurricanes descend : Say, shall we purle the rage, aflift the storm?

And guide them to the bosom-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 boift'rous throng,

Ere death divide us, and we part na more ?

For oh! pale fickness warns thy friend away ;

For me no more the vernal roses bloom! I see ftern fate his ebon wand difplay;

And point the wither'd regions of the tomb.

Then the keen anguish from thine eye shall start,

Sad as thou follow'st my untimely bier; “ Fool that I was--if friends fo foon must part,

• To let fufpicion intermix a fear,”!

EL EGY

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Declining an invitation to visit foreign countries,

he takes occasion to intimate the advantages of his own.

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To Lord TEMPLE.

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7 HILE others loft to friendship, loft 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 dętested prize ;

No more it blooms to British climes convey'd, Cramp'd by the impulse of ungenial fkies,

See its fresh vigour, in a moment, fade!

Th' exotic folly knows its native clime;

An aukward ftranger, 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

Oct

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 diftant clime fall servile airs impart,

form these limbs with pliant ease to play ;
Trembling I view the Gaul's illusive art,
That steals my lov'd rufticity away.

vi
'Tis long since freedom fled th' Hesperian clime;

Her citron groves, her flow'r-embroider'd shore;
She faw the British oak aspire fublime,

And soft CAMPANIA's olive charms no more.

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Let partial suns mature the western mine, ,

To fhed its lustre o'er th’ Iberian maid;
Mien, beauty, shape, O native foil, are thine ;

Thy peerless daughters ak no foreign aid.

Let * CEYLON's envy'd plant perfume the seas,

'Till torn to feafon the Batavian bowl;
Ours is the breast whose genuine ardours please,

Nor need a drug to meliorate the soul.

Let the proud Soldan wound th' Arcadian groves,

Or with rude lips th’ Aonian fount profane;
The muse no more by flow'ry LADON roves,

She feek's her THOMSON, on the British plain.

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