Laid on a daisy sprinkled green,
Befide a plaintive stream,
A meek-ey'd youth of ferious mien
Indulged this folemn theme.

Ye cliffs in hoary grandeur pil'd
High o'er the glimmering dale!
Ye groves, along whose windings wild,
Soft fighs the faddening gale;
Where oft lone melancholy ftrays,
By wilder'd fancy fway'd,

What time the wan moon's yellow rays
Gleam through the chequer'd fhade!

To you, ye waftes, whofe artlefs charms
Ne'er drew ambition's eye,
Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms
Το your retreats I fly;

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 heavenly smile how win!

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
With dreams of former days,
When soft on leisure's lap reclin'd
He carol'd fprightly lays :
Bleft days! when fancy fmiled at care,
When pleasure toy'd with truth,
Nor envy with malignant glare

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,
In ftormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy!-
O take thy wanderer home.

Henceforth thy awful haunts be mine!
The long-abandon'd hill;

The hollow cliff, whofe waving pine
O'er hangs the dark some rill ;
Whence the scar'd owl on pinions grey

Breaks from the rustling boughs,
And down the lone vale fails away
To shades of deep repose.

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,
No vagrant foot be nigh,
No ray from grandeur's gilded car
Flash on the startled eye.

Yet if fome pilgrim 'mid the glade
Thy hallow'd bowers explore,
O guard from harm his hoary head,
And liften to his lore.

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
Ambition loves to tread ;

No more I climb those toilfome heights,
By guileful hope misled:
Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more
To mirth's enlivening strain ;
For prefent pleasure foon is o'er,
And all the paft iş vain,

ODE FOR LADY

's BIRTH-DAY.

HILE fome vain mufe, deluded with the

WI

zeal,

Which youthful bards infpir'd by beauty feel,
Her feftive garland brings,

Suffer, dear girl, one fober friend

His cypress with thofe flow'rs to blend,
Attentive while he fings:

Come, let's lament the jocund days are past,
Lament whole years fhould run their courfe fo fast,
And that thy peerless charms have but few more

to laft!

When this the language of the town,
"Can nothing but an earl go down;
I tremble left her bloom fhould fade,
And after all the die a maid!"

Sure in fair Albion's land was never seen
A statelier form-a more majestic mien-
Limbs of fuch caft as thine;

Features you have of chafteft mould,
Lips-that make's look too cold,
In fpite of their carmine.

Not B-y's cheek boasts more becoming hue,
Complexion you have, paragon'd by few,

A countenance as sweet as either F-s or C-w.

How

How evidently thro' the clothes
Your pulpy thigh its ripenefs fhews;
Can pins reftrain that wanton breaft,
It heaves and you are half undrest!

Yet know, the full-blown flow'r is fhortly clos'd,
Fruits, when mature, to the firft guft expos'd,
Fall taftelefs, and decay;

Soon fhall that bofom, flufh'd with pride,
Abafh'd, its little roses hide,

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
For eyes of most voluptuous water.

What then shall S-e do?-No, God forbid !
As fenfelefs D-d, or as Sy did,
Chill veftals out of date;

They, whofe ambition foar'd fo high,
(Taught humbler maxims by the by)
Repented-when too late :

Tho' Sr, P-e, L-r, ftill be fair,

Tho' W.

Poor H

P—e,

-e be but little worse for wear,
has neither teeth nor hair.

Draw