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But busy busy still art thou,
To bind the loveless joyless vow,
The heart from pleasure to delude,
To join the gentle to the rude '.

For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care;
All other blessings I resign,
Make but the dear Amanda mine.

O Nightingale, best poet of the grove,

That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee, Blest in the full possession of thy love :

O lend that strain, sweet Nightingale, to me!

'Tis mine, alas! to mourn my wretched fate:

I love a maid who all my bosom charms, Yet lose my days without this lovely mate;

Inhuman fortune keeps her from my arms.

You, happy birds! by nature's simple laws

soft lives, sustain'd by nature's fare; You dwell wherever roving fancy draws,

And love and song is all your pleasing care :

IA M$. copy of this song, in Lord Buchan's collection, concluded thus :

For pomp, and noise, and senseless show,
To make us Nature's joys forego,
Beneath a gay dominion groan,
And put the golden fetters on!



But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride,
Dare not be blest lest envious tongues should

blame :
And hence, in vain I languish for my

bride! O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame.

O Thou, whose tender serious eyes

Expressive speak the mind I love;
The gentle azure of the skies,

The pensive shadows of the grove :
O mix their beauteous beams with mine,

And let us interchange our hearts ;
Let all their sweetness on me shine,

Pour'd through my soul be all their darts. Ah! 'tis too much! I cannot bear

At once so soft, so keen a ray: In pity then, my lovely fair,

O turn those killing eyes away! But what avails it to conceal

One charm, where nought but charms I see? Their lustre then again reveal,

And let me, Myra, die of thee !


REV. MR. MURDOCH, RECTOR OF STRADDISHALL, IN SUFFOLK. 1738. Thus safely low, my friend, thou can'st not fall : Here reigns a deep tranquillity o'er all;

No noise, no care, no vanity, no strife ;
Men, woods, and fields, all breathe untroubled life.
Then keep each passion down, however dear;
Trust me, the tender are the most severe.
Guard, while 'tis thine, thy philosophic ease,
And ask no joy but that of virtuous peace;
That bids defiance to the storms of fate:
High bliss is only for a higher state.





While secret-leaguing nations frown around,

Ready to pour the long-expected storm;
While she, who wont the restless Gaul to bound,

Britannia, drooping, grows an empty form;
While on our vitals selfish parties prey,
And deep corruption eats our soul away:
Yet in the Goddess of the Main appears

A gleam of joy, gay-flushing every grace,
As she the cordial-voice of millions hears,

Bejoicing, zealous, o'er thy rising race:
Straight her rekindling eyes resume their fire,
The Virtues smile, the Muses tune the lyre.
But more enchanting than the Muse's song,

United Britons thy dear offspring hail :
The city triumphs through her glowing throng,

The shepherd tells his transport to the dale ;
The sons of roughest toil forget their pain,
And the glad sailor cheers the midnight main.

Can aught from fair Augusta's gentle blood,

And thine, thou friend of liberty! be born: Can aught save what is lovely, generous, good;

What will, at once, defend us, and adorn? From thence prophetic joy new Edwards eyes, New Henrys, Annas, and Elizas rise.

May fate my fond devoted days extend,

To sing the promis'd glories of thy reign! What though, by years depress’d, my Muse might


My heart will teach her still a nobler strain: How, with recover'd Britain, will she soar, When France insults, and Spain shall rob no more.


He's not the happy man, to whom is given
A plenteous fortune hy indulgent heaven;
Whose gilded roofs on shining columns rise,
And painted walls enchant the gazers' eyes:
Whose table flows with hospitable cheer,
And all the various bounty of the year; [spring,
Whose vallies smile, whose gardens breathe the
Whose carved mountains bleat and forests sing;
For whom the cooling shade in summer twines,
While his full cellars give their generous wines ;
From whose wide fields unbounded autumn pours
A golden tide into his swelling stores:
Whose winter laughs ; for whom the liberal gales
Stretch the big sheet, and toiling commerce sails;
When yielding crowds attend, and pleasure serves ;
While youth and health, and vigour string his nerves.
Ev'n not all these, in one rich lot combin’d,
Can make the happy man, without the mind;
Where judgment sits clear-sighted, and surveys
The chain of reason with unerring gaze;
Where fancy lives, and to the brightening eyes,
His fairer scenes, and bolder figures rise ;
Where social love exerts her soft command,
And plays the passions with a tender hand,
Whence every virtue flows, in rival strife
And all the moral harmony of life.

Nor canst thou, Dodington, this truth decline,
Thine is the fortune, and the mind is thine.




By Rufus' hall, where Thames polluted flows,
Provok'd, the Genius of the river rose,
And thus exclaim'd: “ Have I, ye British swains,
Have I for ages lav'd your fertile plains ?
Giv'n herds, and flocks, and villages increase,
And fed a richer than a golden fleece?
Have I, ye merchants, with each swelling tide,
Pour'd Afric's treasure in, and India's pride?
Lent you the fruit of every nation's toil ?
Made every climate your's, and every soil?
Yet, pilferd from the poor, by gaming base,
Yet must a wooden-bridge my waves disgrace?
Tell not to foreign streams the shameful tale,
And be it publish'd in no Gallic vale."
He said; and plunging to his crystal dome,
While o'er his head the circling waters foam.


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