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*Oh! I could doat upon the rural scene,

• It's prospect over hill and champaign wide, • But that it marks the tedious way between,

• That parts my Damon from his promis'd bride.

• The gardens now put forth their blossoms sweet,

• In Nature's Rowery mantle gaily dress'd; « The close-trimm'd hedge, and circling border neat,

• All ask my Delia for their dearest guest.

• The lily pale, the purple blushing rose,

• In this fair spot their mingled beauties join; • The woodbine here it's curling tendrils throws,

• In wreaths fantastick, round the mantling vine.

The branching arbour here, for lovers made,

• For dalliance meet, or fong, or amorous tale,
Shall oft protect us with it's cooling fhade,
• When sultry Phæbus burns the lowly vale.

< 'Tis all another paradise around;

• And, trust me, so it would appear to me, • Like the first man were I not lonely found,

• And but half blest, my Delia, wanting thee.

For two, but two, I've form'd a lovely walk,

• And I have call'd it by my fair-one's name; • Here, bless'd with thee, t'enjoy thy pleasing talk,

" While fools and madmen bow the knee to fame.

• The rustick path already have I try'd,

• Oft at the finking of the setting day; • And while, my love, I thought thee by my side,

• With careful steps have worn it's edge away,

. With

• With thee I've held discourse, how passing sweet!

• While fancy brought thee to my raptur'd dream; • With thee have prattled in my lone retreat,

• And talk'd down suns on love's delicious theme.

• Oft, as I'wander through the rustick crowd,

• Musing with downcast look, and folded arms; « They stare with wonder when I rave aloud,

• And dwell with rapture on thy artless charms.

• They call me mad, and oft with finger rude,

• Point at me leering, as I heedless pass;
• Yet Colin knows the cause, for love is fhrewd,

. And the young shepherd courts the farmer's lass.

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. Among the fruits that grace this little seat,

• And all around their clustering foliage spread,
• Here may'st thou cull the peach, or nectarine sweet,

Ana pluck the strawberry from it's native bed.

. And all along the river's verdant fide,

• I've planted elms, which rise in even row, • And Aling their lofty branches'far and wide,

• Which Hoat reflected, in the lake below,

Since I've been absent from my lovely fair,

Imagination forms a thousand schemes; • For O! my Delia, thou art all my care,

• And all with me is love and golden dreams.

*O flattering promise of secure delight!

• When will the lazy-pacing hours be o’er, • That I may fly with rapture to thy fight,

• And we shall meet again, to part no more?"




YON organ! hark !-how foft, how sweet,


, ,
The warbling notes in concert meet!

The found my fancy leads
To climes where Phæbus' brightest beams
Gild jasmine groves, and chrystal streams,

And lily-mantled meads;

Where myrtle bowers their bloom unfold,
Where citrons bend with fruit of gold,

Where grapes depress the vines;
Where, on the bank with roses gay,
Love, Innocence, and Pleasure play,

And Beauty's form reclines.

Now different tones and measures flow,
And, gravely deep, and fadly flow,

Involve the mind in gloom;
I seem to join the mournful train,
Attendant round the couch of Pain,

Or leaning o'er the tomb:

To where the orphan'd infant sleeps,
To where the love-lorn damfel weeps,

I pitying seem to stray;
Methinks I watch his cradle near;
Methinks her drooping thoughts I chear,

And wipe her tears away.



Now loud the tuneful thunders roll,
And rouze and elevate the soul

O'er earth and all it's care;
I seem to hear from heavenly plains
Angelick choirs responsive strains,
And in their raptures





HY loves my flower, the sweetest flower

That swells the golden breast of May, « Thrown rudely o'er this ruin'd tower,

« To waste her folitary day?

• Why, when the mead, the spicy vale,

• The grove and genial garden call, • Will she her fragrant soul exhale,

• Unheeded, on the lonely wall?

• For never, sure, was beauty born

• To live in death's deserted shade! • Come, lovely flower, my banks adorn;

• My banks, for life and beauty made.'

Thus Pity wak'd the tender thought;

And, by her sweet perfuafion led, To seize the hermit-flower I sought,

And bear her from her stony bed.

I fought--but sudden on mine ear

A voice in hollow murmurs broke, And fmote my heart with holy fear ;

The Genius of the Ruin spoke.

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« From thee be far th'ungentle deed,

· The honours of the dead to spoil; • Or take the sole remaining meed,

The flower that crowns their former toil!

• Nor deem that flower the garden’s foe,

• Or fond to grace this barren shade; « 'Tis Nature tells her to bestow

• Her honours on the lonely dead.

• For this, obedient zephyrs bear

• Her light seeds round yon turret's mold; • And, undispers'd by tempefts, there

They rise in vegetable gold.

• Nor shall thy wonder wake to see

• Such desart scenes distinction crave; • Oft have they been, and oft shall be

• Truth's, Honour's, Valour's, Beauty's grave.

• Where longs to fall that rifted spire,

• As weary of th' insulting air; • The poet's thought, the warrior's fire,

• The lover's fighs, are fleeping there.

• When that, too, shakes the trembling ground,

• Borne down by some tempestuous lky, • And many a slumbering cottage round

« Startleshow still their hearts will lie !

• Of them who, wrapt in earth fo cold,

• No more the smiling day shall view, Should many a tender tale be told,

For many a tender thought is due,

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