The shepherd rush'd forth from behind the thick
Prepared to make Phillida bless'd, [tree,
And clasping the maid, from a heart full of glee,
The cause of his absence confess'd:-
High raptures, 'twas told him by masters in love,
Too often repeated would cloy;

And respites- -he found were the means to im-
And lengthen the moments of joy.

[prove

A PASTORAL'.

WHERE the fond zephyr through the woodbine

plays,

[bower, And wakes sweet fragrance in the mantling Near to that grove my lovely bridegroom stays Impatient, for 'tis pass'd-the promised hour!

Lend me thy light, O ever sparkling star!

Bright Hesper! in thy glowing pomp array'd, Look down, look down, from thy all glorious car, And beam protection on a wandering maid.

"Tis to escape the penetrating spy,

And pass, unnoticed, from malignant sight, This dreary waste, full resolute, I try,

And trust my footsteps to the shades of night.

The Moon has slipp'd behind an envious cloud,
Her smiles, so gracious, I no longer view;
Let her remain behind that envious shroud,
My hopes, bright Hesperus, depend on you.

1 The hint taken from the 7th Idyllium of Moschus, translated by Dr. Broome.

No rancour ever reach'd my harmless breast;
I hurt no birds, nor rob the bustling bee:
Hear, then, what Love and Innocence request,
And shed kindest influence on me.

your

Thee Venus loves-first twinkler of the sky, Thou art her star-in golden radiance gay! On my distresses cast a pitying eye,

Assist me-for, alas! I've lost my way.

I see the darling of my soul-my Love!
Expression can't the mighty rapture tell:
He leads me to the bosom of the grove:
Thanks, gentle star-kind Hesperus, farewell!

ON THE BIRTH OF THE QUEEN.

A PASTORAL HYMN TO JANUS.

Te primum pia thura rogent-te vota salutent, te colat omnis honos.

MART. ad Janum.

To Janus, gentle shepherds! raise a shrine:
His honours be divine!

And as to mighty Pan with homage bow:

To him the virgin troop shall tribute bring; Let him be hail'd like the green liveried Spring,

Spite of the wintry storms that stain his brow.

The pride, the glowing pageantry of May,
Glides wantonly away :

But January', in his rough-spun vest,

Boasts the full blessings that can never fade, He that gave birth to the illustrious maid, Whose beauties make the British Monarch bless'd!

Could the soft Spring with all her sunny showers,
The frolic nurse of flowers!

Or flaunting Summer, flush'd in ripen'd pride,
Could they produce a finish'd sweet so rare?
Or from his golden stores, a gift so fair,
Say, has the fertile Autumn e'er supplied?

Henceforward let the hoary month be gay
As the white hawthorn'd May!

The laughing goddess of the Spring disown'd,
Her rosy wreath shall on His brows appear:
Old Janus as he leads, shall fill the year,
And the less fruitful Autumn be dethroned.

Above the other months supremely bless'd,
Glad Janus stands confess'd!

He can behold with retrospective face
The mighty blessings of the year gone by:
Where, to connect a Monarch's nuptial tie,
Assembled every glory, every grace!

When he looks forward on the flattering year,
The golden hours appear,

As in the sacred reign of Saturn, fair:

Britain shall prove from this propitious date, Her honours perfect, victories complete, And boast the brightest hopes, a British Heir.

This poem was written on the supposition that her Majesty's birthday was really in the month of January.

ON THE APPROACH OF MAY.

THE virgin, when soften'd by May,
Attends to the villager's vows;
The birds sweetly bill on the spray,

And poplars embrace with their boughs;
On Ida bright Venus may reign,
Adored for her beauty above!
We shepherds that dwell on the plain,
Hail May as the mother of love.

From the west as it wantonly blows,
Fond zephyr caresses the vine;
The bee steals a kiss from the rose,
And willows and woodbines entwine:

The pinks by the rivulet side,

That border the vernal alcove,

Bend downward to kiss the soft tide:

For May is the mother of love.

May tinges the butterfly's wing,
He flutters in bridal array!
And if the wing'd foresters sing,
Their music is taught them by May.
The stockdove, recluse with her mate,
Conceals her fond bliss in the grove,
And murmuring seems to repeat
That May is the mother of love.

The goddess will visit you soon,
Ye virgins! be sportive and gay:
Get your pipes, oh ye shepherds! in tune,
For music must welcome the May.

Would Damon have Phillis prove kind,
And all his keen anguish remove,
Let him tell her soft tales, and he'll find
That May is the mother of love.

ON THE LATE ABSENCE OF MAY.

1771.

THE rooks in the neighbouring grove
For shelter cry all the long day:
Their huts in the branches above
Are cover'd no longer by May:
The birds that so cheerfully sung,
Are silent, or plaintive each tone,
And, as they chirp low to their young,
The want of their goddess bemoan.
No daisies on carpets of green,

O'er Nature's cold bosom are spread;
Not a sweetbriar sprig can be seen,
To finish this wreath for my head:
Some flowerets indeed may be found,
But these neither blooming nor gay;
The fairest still sleep in the ground,
And wait for the coming of May.

December, perhaps, has purloin'd
Her rich though fantastical geer;
With envy the months may have join'd,
And jostled her out of the year:
Some shepherds, 'tis true, may repine,
To see their loved gardens undress'd,
But I-whilst my Phillida's mine,

Shall always have May in my breast.