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VERSE S

WRITTEN

UPON A

IN A MEADOW

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TO

NEAR RICHMOND FERRY, BELONGING

RICHARD OWEN CAMBRIDGE, ESQ. SEPT. MDCCLX.

Yguard from harm thefe favour'd boughs;
E green-hair'd nymphs! whom Pan allows.

To

Ye blue-eyed Naiads of the ftream,

That foothe the warm poetic dream;

Ye elves and sprights, that thronging round,
When midnight darkens all the ground,
In antic measures uncontroul'd,

Your fairy fports and revels hold,
And up and down, where-e'er ye pafs,
With many a ringlet print the grafs ;
If e'er the bard hath hail'd your power
At morn's grey dawn, or evening hour;
If e'er by moonlight on the plain
Your ears have caught th' enraptur'd strain;
From every flowret's velvet head,

From reverend Thames's oozy bed,

From thefe mofs'd elms, where prison'd deep,
Conceal'd from human eyes, ye fleep,
If these your haunts be worth your care,
Awake, arife, and hear my prayer!

O banish from this peaceful plain
The perjur'd nymph, the faithless swain,

A line of Mr. Mafon's.

The

The ftubborn heart, that fcorns to bow,
And harsh rejects the honest vow :

The fop, who wounds the virgin's ear
With aught that sense would blush to hear,
Or, false to honour, mean and vain,
Defames the worth he cannot ftain :
The light coquet, with various art,
Who cafts her net for every heart,
And smiling flatters to the chace
Alike the worthy and the base:

The dame, who, proud of virtue's praise,
Is happy if a fifter ftrays,

And, confcious of unclouded fame,
Delighted, fpreads the tale of fhame:
But far, O banish'd far be they,

Who hear, unmov'd, the orphan's cry,
Who fee, nor wifh to wipe away,

The tear that fwells the widow's eye;
Th' unloving man, whofe narrow mind
Difdains to feel for human-kind,

At others blifs whofe cheek ne'er glows,
Whose breaft ne'er throbs with others woes,
Whofe hoarded fum of private joys
His private care alone deftroys;
Ye fairies, caft your spells around,

And guard from fuch this hallow'd ground!
But welcome all, who figh with truth,
Each conftant maid and faithful youth,
Whom mutual love alone hath join'd,
Sweet union of the willing mind!

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Hearts pair'd in heaven, not meanly fold,
Law-licens'd prostitutes for gold:

And welcome thrice, and thrice again,
The chofen few, the worthy train,
Whose steady feet, untaught to ftray,

Still tread where virtue marks the way;

Whofe fouls no thought, whose hands have known
No deed, which honour might not own;
Who, torn with pain, or ftung with care,
In others blifs can claim a part,
And, in life's brighteft hour, can share

Each pang that wrings another's heart:
Ye guardian sprights, when fuch ye see,
Sweet peace be theirs, and welcome free!
Clear be the sky from clouds or showers!

Green be the turf, and fresh the flowers!
And that the youth, whofe pious care
Lays on your fhrine this honeft prayer,
May, with the reft, admittance gain,
And vifit oft this pleasant scene:
Let all who love the Mufe attend!

Who loves the Mufe is Virtue's friend.

Such then alone may venture here,
Who, free from guilt, are free from fear,
Whose wide affections can embrace

The whole extent of human race;
Whom Virtue and her friends approve;
Whom Cambridge and the Mufes love.

SONG.

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SWEET

WEET are the banks, when fpring perfumes
The verdant plants, and laughing flowers,

Fragrant the violet, as it blooms,

And fweet the bloffoms after showers.

Sweet is the foft, the funny breeze,

That fans the golden orange-grove;

But oh! how sweeter far than thefe
The kiffes are of her I love.

Ye rofes! blushing in your beds,

That with your odours scent the air;

Ye lilies chafte! with filver heads
As my Cleora's bɔsom fair:

No more I court your balmy sweets;
For I, and I alone, can prove,
How fweeter, when each other meets,
The kiffes are of her I love.

Her tempting eyes my gaze inclin'd,

Their pleafing leffon firft I caught; Her fenfe, her friendship next confin'd The willing pupil fhe had taught. Should fortune, ftooping from her sky, Conduct me to her bright alcove ; Yet, like the turtle, I fhould die,

Denied the kifs of her I love.

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The GENIUS OF BRITAIN.

AN I AMBICO DE.

WRITTEN IN MDCCLVI.

AS

S late o'er Britain's chalky coasts

The Genius of the island flew,
The venal swarm of foreign hosts

Inglorious balking in his view,
Deep in his breast he felt the new disgrace,
And honest blushes warm’d his godlike face.

Quick flash'd the lightning of his spear

Which blasted France on Crefly's field,
He wheel'd the blazen sword in air,

And on his shonlders spread the shield,
As when, o’er Agincourt's blood-purpled lands,
Pale Terror stalk'd thro' all the Gallic bands,

Soon as he cast his eyes below,

Deep heav'd the fympathetic figh, Sudden the tears of anguish flow,

For fore he felt th' indignity; Discordant paffions shook his heavenly frame, Now Horrors damp, now Indignations flame.

Ah!

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