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Touch'd by thee, MAY, the flocks and lusty droves,

That low in pastures, or on mountains bleat, Revive their frolics and renew their loves,

Stung to the marrow with a generous heat. The fiately courser, bounding o'er the plain, Shakes to the winds the honours of his mane, (High-arch'd his neck) and, snuffing, hopes the

dappled train. The aëreal fongsters footh the lift’ning groves :

The mellow thrush, the ouzle fweetly shrill,
And little linnet, celebrate their loves

In hawthorn valley, or on tufted hill;
The foaring lark, the lowly nightingale,
A thorn her pillow, trills her doleful tale,
And melancholy music dies along the dale.
This gay exuberance of gorgeous fpring,

The gilded mountain and the herbag'd vale,
The woods that blossom, and the birds that ling,

The niurmuring fountain, and the breathing dale : The dale, the fountains, birds and woods delight, The vales, the mountains, and the spring invite, Yet, unadorn’d by MAY, no longer charm the fight: When nature laughs around, shall man alone,

Thy image, hang (ah me!) the fickly head? When nature fings, mall nature's glory groan,

And languish for the pittance poor of bread ? O may the man that shall his image scorn, Alive, be ground with hunger, moft forlorn, Die unanell’d, and dead, by dogs and kites be torn, Curs'd may he be (as if he were not fo).

Nay doubiy curs'd be such a brealt of steel, Which never melted at another's woe,

Nor tenderness of bowels knew to feel. His heart is black as hell, in flowing store Who hears the needy crying at his door, Who hears them cry, ne recks; but suffers them

be poor.

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