An Irregular O DE written at Wickham, in 1746.

To the Same.

I.

YE fylvan scenes with artless beauty gay,

Ye gentle shades of Wickham fay,

What is the charm that each fucceffive year,
Which fees me with my Lucy here,
Can thus to my transported heart,
A fenfe of joy unfelt before impart ?

II.

Is it glad Summer's balmy breath that blows
From the fair jeff'mine, and the blushing rose?
Her balmy breath, and all her blooming store
Of rural blifs was here before :

Oft have I met her on the verdant fide

Of Norwood-hill, and in the yellow meads,

Where Pan the dancing Graces leads,

Array'd in all her flow'ry pride.

VOL. II.

F

No

No fweeter fragrance now the gardens yield,

No brighter colours paint th' enamel'd field.

III.

Is it to Love these new delights I owe?

Four times has the revolving fun

His annual circle through the zodiac run;
Since all that Love's indulgent pow'r

On favour'd mortals can bestow,

Was giv'n to me in this aufpicious bow'r.

IV.

Here firft my Lucy, fweet in virgin charms,
Was yielded to my longing arms;

And round our nuptial bed,

Hov'ring with purple wings, th' Idalian boy
Shook from his radiant torch the blissful fires
Of innocent defires,

While Venus fcatter'd myrtles o'er her head.

Whence then this ftrange increase of joy?
He, only he can tell, who match'd like me,
(If fuch another happy man there be)

Has by his own experience try'd

How much the Wife is dearer than the Bride.

Το

To the MEMORY of the fame LADY,

A MONO D Y. A. D. 1747.

Ipfe cava folans ægrum teftudine amorem,
Te dulcis conjux, te folo in littore fecum,
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.

By the Same.

A

I.

T length escap'd from every human eye,

From every duty, every care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry,
Beneath the gloom of this embow'ring fhade,
This lone retreat, for tender forrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my ftores of grief,

Of grief furpaffing every other woe,
Far as the pureft blifs, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind beftow,

Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our grofs defires, inelegant and low.

II.

Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'erfhadowing hills,
Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green,

Oft have you my Lucy feen!
But never shall you now behold her more:
Nor will she now with fond delight

And tafte refin'd your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to fhine
Reason's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.

III.

Oft would the Dryads of thefe woods rejoice
To hear her heav'nly voice,

For her defpifing, when the deign'd to fing,
The sweetest songsters of the spring:

The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more;

The nightingale was mute,

And every shepherd's flute

Was

Was caft in filent fcorn away,

While all attended to her sweeter lay.

Ye larks and linnets now refume your fong,
And thou, melodious Philomel,

Again thy plaintive story tell,

For death has stopt that tuneful tongue, Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel.

IV.

In vain I look around

O'er all the well-known ground My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry;

Where oft we us'd to walk,

Where oft in tender talk

We faw the fummer fun go down the sky;

Nor by yon fountain's fide,

Nor where its waters glide

Along the valley, can fhe now be found:

In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound
No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her espy,

But the fad facred earth where her dear relics lie..

H

V.

O fhades of H――y, where is now your boast?

Your bright inhabitant is loft.