The painted belles, at court rever'd,

Look lifeless, cold, and stale: How faint their beauties, when compar'd With Fanny of the Dale!

O'ER Nature's fresh bosom, by verdure unbound, Bleak Winter blooms lovely as Spring:

Rich flow'rets (how fragrant!) rise wantonly round,
And Summer's wing'd choristers sing!

To greet the young monarch of Britain's blest isle,
The groves with gay blossoms are grac'd!
The primrose peeps forth with an innocent smile,
And cowslips crowd forward in haste.

Dispatch, gentle Flora, the nymphs of your train
Through woodlands, to gather each sweet:
Go-rob, of young roses, the dew-spangled plain,
And strew the gay spoils at his feet.

What honours, ye Britons! (one emblem implies)
What glory to George shall belong!
What Miltons, (the other) what Addisons rise,
To make him immortal in song!

To a wreath of fresh oak, England's emblem of power!

Whose honours with time shall increase! Add a fair olive sprig, just unfolding its flow'r, Rich token of concord and peace!

Next give him young myrtles, by Beauty's bright Collected-the pride of the grove! [queen How fragrant their odour! their foliage how green! Sweet promise of conjugal love!

Let Gaul's captive lilies, cropt close to the ground, As trophies of conquest be ty'd:

The virgins all cry, "There's not one to be found! Out-bloom'd by his roses—they dy’d.”

Ye foes of Old England, such fate shall ye share, With George, as our glories advance- [despair, Through envy you'll sicken,-you'll droop-you'll And die-like the lilies of France.

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,

Ador'd 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,

The stock-dove, recluse with her mate, Their music is taught them by May. 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.

Torrents in extended sheets

Down the cliffs, dividing, break: Twixt the hills the water meets, Setting in a silver lake!

From his languid flocks, the swain,

By the sunbeams sore opprest, Plunging on the wat'ry plain,

Ploughs it with his glowing breast.

Where the mantling willows nod,

From the green bank's slopy side, Patient, with his well-thrown rod,

Many an angler breaks the tide!

On the isles, with osiers drest,

Many a fair-plum'd halcyon breeds! Many a wild bird hides her nest,

Cover'd in yon crackling reeds.

Fork-tail'd prattlers, as they pass To their nestlings in the rock, Darting on the liquid glass,

Seem to kiss the mimick'd flock.

Where the stone cross lifts its head, Many a saint and pilgrim hoar, Up the hill was wont to tread, Barefoot, in the days of yore.

Guardian of a sacred well,

Arch'd beneath yon reverend shades, Whilome, in that shatter'd cell, Many an hermit told his beads.

Sultry mists surround the heath

Where the gothic dome appears, O'er the trembling groves beneath, Tott'ring with a load of years.

Turn to the contrasted scene,
Where, beyond these hoary piles,
Gay, upon the rising green,
Many an attic building smiles!

Painted gardens-grots-and groves, Intermingling shade and light; Lengthen'd vistas, green alcoves, Join to give the eye delight.

Hamlets-villages, and spires, Scatter'd on the landscape lie, Till the distant view retires, Closing in an azure sky.

Now the wanton god grown slier, And for each fond mischief ripe, Comes disguis'd in Pan's attire, Tuning sweet an oaten pipe: Echo, by the winding river, Doubles his delusive strains: While the boy conceals his quiver, From the slow-returning swains.

As Palemon, unsuspecting,
Prais'd the sly musician's art,
Love, his light disguise rejecting,
Lodg'd an arrow in his heart:
Cupid will enforce your duty,
Shepherds, and would have you taught,
Those who timid fly from Beauty,
May by Melody be caught.

DELIA.

A PASTORAL

THE gentle swan with graceful pride
Her glossy plumage laves,
And sailing down the silver tide,

Divides the whisp'ring waves: The silver tide, that wand'ring flows, Sweet to the bird must be!

But not so sweet-blithe Cupid knows, As Delia is to me.

A parent bird, in plaintive mood,
On yonder fruit-tree sung,
And still the pendent nest she view'd,
That held her callow young:
Dear to the mother's flutt'ring heart
The genial brood must be;

But not so dear (the thousandth part!)
As Delia is to me.

The roses that my brow surround
Were natives of the dale;
Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound,
Before their sweets grew pale!

My vital bloom would thus be froze,
If luckless torn from thee;

For what the root is to the rose,

My Delia is to me.

Two doves I found, like new-fall'n snow,

So white the beauteous pair!

The birds to Delia I'll bestow,

They 're like, her bosom fair!

When, in their chaste connubial love,
My secret wish she 'll see ;

Such mutual bliss as turtles prove,
May Delia share with me.

MELODY.

LIGHTSOME as convey'd by sparrows, Love and Beauty cross'd the plains, Flights of little pointed arrows

love dispatch'd among the swains: But so much our shepherds dread him, (Spoiler of their peace profound) Swift as scudding fawns they fled him, Frighted, though they felt no wound.

THE SYCAMORE SHADE.

A BALLAD.

T'OTHER day as I sat in the sycamore shade, Young Damon came whistling along,

I trembled-I blush'd-a poor innocent maid! And my heart caper'd up to my tongue :

The shepherd's so civil, you 've nothing to fear, Then prythee, fond urchin, lie still."

Sly Damon drew near, and knelt down at my feet,
One kiss he demanded-No more!

But urg'd the soft pressure with ardour so sweet,
I could not begrudge him a score;
My lambkins I've kiss'd, and no change ever found,
Many times as we play'd on the hill;
But Damon's dear lips made my heart gallop round,
Nor would the found urchin he still.

When the Sun blazes fierce, to the sycamore shade
For shelter, I'm sure to repair;
And, virgins, in faith I'm no longer afraid,

Although the dear shepherd be there:

At ev'ry fond kiss that with freedom he takes,
My heart may rebound if it will;
There's something so sweet in the bustle it makes,
I'll die ere I bid it lie still,

bind,

And Damon will always prove faithful and kind.

PHILLIS.

To the church then let 's hasten, our transports to bind,

And Phillis will always prove faithful and kind.

THE WARNING.

YOUNG Colin once courted Myrtilla the prude, If he sigh'd or look'd tender, she cry'd he was rude;

Though he begg'd with devotion, some case for his pain,

The shepherd got nothing but frowns and disdain.
Fatigu'd with her folly, his suit he gave o'er,
And vow'd that no female should fetter him more.