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And sketch with care the muse's bower,
Where Isis rolls her silver tide ; Nor yet omit one reed or flower
That shines on Cherwell's verdant side ; If so thou may'st those hours prolong, When polish'd Lycon join'd my song.
it 'vails not to recite But sure, to sooth our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appear'd more bright
Than other banks, than other streams : Or, by thy softening pencil shown, Assume thy beauties not their own!
And paint that sweetly vacant scene,
When, all beneath the poplar bough, My spirits light, my soul serene,
Í breath d in verse one cordial vow : That nothing should my soul inspire, But friendship warm, and love entire.
Dull to the sense of new delight,
On thee the drooping muse attends ; As some fond lover, robb’d of sight,
On thy expressive power depends; Nor would exchange thy glowing lines, To live the lord of all that shines.
But let me chase those vows away
Which at ambition's shrine I made; Nor ever let thy skill display
Those anxious nioments, ill repaid : Oh! from my breast that season raze, And bring my childhood in its place.
Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,
And bring the hobby I bestrode; When, pleas'd in many a sportive ring,
Around the room I jovial rode: Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu, And bring the whistle that I blew.
Then will I muse, and pensive say,
Why did not these enjoyments last?
While innocence allow'd to waste!
ODE TO HEALTH.
HEALTH, capricious maid! Why dost thou shun my peaceful bower, Where I had hope to share thy power,
And bless thy lasting aid ?
Since thou, alas! art flown, It 'vails not whether muse or grace, With tempting smile, frequent the place:
I sigh for thee alone.
Age not forbids thy stay; Thou yet might'st act the friendly part; Thou yet might'st raise this languid heart;
Why speed so swift away?
Thou scorn'st the city air ;
ground, Yet hast not thou my wishes crown'd,
O false! O partial fair !
I plunge into the wave;
Thou wilt not deign to save.
Amid my well known grove, Where mineral fountains vainly bear Thy boasted name, and titles fair,
Why scorns thy foot to rove?
Thou hear'st the sportsman's claim;
And fright the timorous game.
Is thought thy foc? adieu,
o'er hills and valleys roams,
Is it the clime you flee?
And shares bright rays from thee.
There was, there was a time, When, though I scorn'd thy guardian care, Nor made a vow, nor said a prayer,
I did not rue the crime.
Who then more blest than I? When the glad school-boy's task was done, And forth, with jocund sprite, I run
To freedom and to joy?
How jovial then the day !
That can thy loss repay?
Wert thou, alas! but kind,
Could sink my cheerful mind.
Whate'er my stars include;
Repair this mouldering cell,
Temperance should guard the doors ; From room to room shall memory stray, And ranging all in neat array,
Enjoy her pleasing stores
There let them rest unknown,
Is thine, fair queen ! alone.
THE DYING KID.
" Oprima quæque dies miseris mortalibus ævi « Prima fugit
way, And on the fearful margin play. Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell, She saw him climb my rustic cell: Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright, And seem all ravish'd at the sight. She tells, with what delight he stood, To trace his features in the flood : Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze; And then drew near again to gaze. She tells me how with eager speed He flew, to hear my vocal reed; And how with critic face profound, And stedfast ear; devour'd the sound,
His every frolic, light as air,
his life so short a date And I will join thy tenderest sighs, To think that youth so swiftly flies!
S O N G. I told my nymph, I told her true, My fields were small, my flocks were few; While faultering accents spoke my fear, That Flavia might not prove
sincere. Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold, And vagrant sheep that left my fold : Of these she heard, yet bore to hear i And is not Flavia then sincere?