Laid on a daisy sprinkled green, Ye cliffs in hoary grandeur pil'd What time the wan moon's yellow rays To you, ye waftes, whofe artlefs charms Deep in your most fequefter'd bower Let me my woes refign, Where folitude, mild modeft power, Leans on her ivy'd shrine. How fhall I woo thee, matchlefs fair! Thy fmile, that smooths the brow of care, And ftills each ftorm within! O wilt thou to thy favourite grove Thine ardent vot'ry bring, And blefs his hours, and bid them move Serene on filent wing. Oft let remembrance foothe his mind Had harm'd his fimple youth. 'Twas then, O folitude, to thee His early vows were paid, From heart fincere and warm and free, Devoted to the shade. Ah! why did fate his fteps decoy, Henceforth thy awful haunts be mine! The hollow cliff, whofe waving pine Breaks from the rustling boughs, O while to thee the woodland pours Its wildly warbling fong, And fragrant from the wafte of flowers The zephyr breathes along; Let Let no rude found invade from far, Yet if fome pilgrim 'mid the glade For he of joys divine shall tell, That wean from earthly woe, And triumph o'er the mighty spell That chains this heart below. For me, no more the path invites No more I climb those toilfome heights, ODE FOR LADY 's BIRTH-DAY. HILE fome vain mufe, deluded with the WI zeal, Which youthful bards infpir'd by beauty feel, Suffer, dear girl, one fober friend His cypress with thofe flow'rs to blend, Come, let's lament the jocund days are past, to laft! When this the language of the town, Sure in fair Albion's land was never seen Features you have of chafteft mould, Not B-y's cheek boasts more becoming hue, A countenance as sweet as either F-s or C-w. How How evidently thro' the clothes Yet know, the full-blown flow'r is fhortly clos'd, Soon fhall that bofom, flufh'd with pride, See F Its lillies die away.— -y, angel once as you are now, Spoilt is her fhape-and rude enough her brow, Tho' none lefs ravag'd for her years we must allow: Nay, folks ftill hold, 'tis hard to tell If more inviting, fhe or B-1; Nor yields the mother to the daughter What then shall S-e do?-No, God forbid ! They, whofe ambition foar'd fo high, Tho' Sr, P-e, L-r, ftill be fair, Tho' W. Poor H P—e, -e be but little worse for wear, Draw |