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But call’d the nymphs to hear his jocund song,
And told his joy to all the rustic throng.

Blest be the hour, he said, that happy hour,
When first I own'd my Delia's gentle pow'r;

Then gloomy discontent and pining care Forsook my breast, and left soft wishes there: Soft wishes there they left, and gay desires, Delightful languors, and transporting fires. Where yonder limes combine to form a shade, These

eyes first gaz'd upon the charming maid; There she appear’d, on that auspicious day, When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay: She led the dance-heav'ns! with what grace she mov'd! Who could have seen her then, and not have lov'd ? I strove not to resist so sweet a flame, But glory'd in a happy captive's name; Nor would I now, could love permit, be free, But leave to brutes their favage liberty.

And art thou then, fond swain, secure of joy? Can no reverse thy flate’ring bliss destroy ? Has tréach'rous Love no torment yet in store? Or hast thou never prov'd his fatal pow'r? Whence flow'd those tears that late bedew'd thy cheek? Why sigh'd thy heart as if it strove to break ?

Why were the desart rocks invok'd to hear
The plaintive accents of thy fad despair ?
From Delia's rigour all those pains arose,
Delia, who now compassionates my woes,
Who bids me hope; and in that charming word
Has peace and transport to my soul restor’d.

Begin, my pipe, begin the gladsome lay ;
A kiss from Delia shall thy music pay ;
A kiss obtain'd 'twixt struggling and consent,
Giv'n with forc'd anger, and disguis'd content :
No laureat wreaths I ask to bind my brows,
Such as the Muse on lofty bards bestows;
Let other swains to praise or fame aspire :
I from her lips my recompence require.

Hark how the bees with murmurs fill the plaing While every flow'r of every sweet they drain ; See, how beneath yon hillock's shady steep, , The shelter'd herds on flow'ry couches Neep: Nor bees, nor herds, are half so blest as I, If with my fond desires my Love comply: From Delia's lips a sweeter honey flows, And on her bosom dwells more soft repose.

Ah how, my dear, shall I deserve thy charms ? What gift can bribe thee to my longing arms ?

A bird for thee in filken bands I hold,
Whose yellow plumage shines like polish'd gold;
From diftant ifles the lovely stranger came,
And bears the Fortunate Canaries name;
In all our woods none boasts so sweet a note,
Not ev’n the nightingale's melodious throat.
Accept of this; and could I add beside
What wealth the rich Peruvian mountains hide ;
If all the gems in Eastern rocks were mine,
On thee alone their glitt'ring pride should shine.
But if thy mind no gifts have pow'r to move,
Phoebus himself shall leave th’ Aonian grove;
The tuneful Nine, who never sue in vain,
Shall come sweet suppliants for their fav'rite swain.
For him each blue-ey'd Naiad of the flood,
For him each green-hair'd sister of the wood,
Whom oft beneath fair Cynthia's gentle ray

. His music calls to dance the night away. And you,

fair nymphs, companions of my Love,
With whom she joys the cowsip meads to rove,
I beg you recommend my faithful flame,
And let her often hear her shepherd's name;
Shade all


faults from her enquiring sight, And shew my meries in the fairest light;


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My pipe your kind aslistance shall repay,
And every friend shall claim a diff'rent lay. ,

But see! in yonder glade the heav'nly fair
Enjoys the fragrance of the breezy air
Ah, thither let me fly with eager
Adieu, my pipe, I go my Love to meet
O may I find her as we parted last,
And may each future hour be like the past !
So shall the whitest lamb these pastures feed,
Propitious Venus, on thy altars bleed.





IHE gods, O WALPOLE, give no bliss sincere :

Wealth is disturbid by care, and pow'r by fear,
Of all the passions that employ the mind, .
In gentle Love the sweetest joys we find;
Yet e’en those joys dire Jealousy molests,
And blackens each fair image in our breasts.

O may

O may the warmth of thy too tender heart
Ne'er feel the sharpness of his venom'd dart;
For thy own quiet think thy mistress just,
And wisely take thy happiness on truft.

Begin, my Muse, and Damon's woes rehearse,
In wildest numbers and disorder'd verse.

On a romantic mountain's airy head (While browzing goats at ease around him fed) Anxious he lay, with jealous cares oppress’d; Distrust and anger lab’ring in his breast — The vale beneath a pleasing prospect yields, Of verdant meads and cultivated fields; Through these a river rolls its winding flood, Adorn'd with various tufts of rising wood; Here half conceald in trees a cottage stands, A castle there the op'ning plain commands, Beyond, a town with glittring spires is crown'd, And diftant hills the wide horizon bound: So charming was the scene, awhile the swain Beheld delighted, and forgot his pain ; But soon the stings infix'd within his heart, With cruel force renew'd their raging smart : His flow'ry wreath, which long with pride he wore, The gift of Delia, from his brows he tore:


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