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How chang'd by fortune's fickle wind,
The friends I lov'd became unkind,
She heard, and shed a generous tear;
And is not Flavia then sincere ?
How, if she deign my love to bless,
My Flavia must not hope for dress;
This too she heard, and smild to hear;
And Flavia sure must be sincere.
Go shear your flocks, ye jovial swains,
Go reap the plenty of your plains;
Despoil'd of all which you revere,
I know my Flavia's love sincere.

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How pleas'd within my native bowers

Erewhile I pass'd the day! Was eyer scene so deck'd with flowers ?

Were ever flowers so gay? How sweetly smil'd the hill, the vale,

And all the landscape round ! The river gliding down the dale!

The hill with beeches crown'd !

But now, when urg'd by tender woes,

I speed to meet my dear, That hill and stream my zeal oppose, And check my

fond career.

No more, since Daphne was my theme,

Their wonted charms I see : That verdant hill, and silver stream,

Divide my love and me.

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Go, tuneful bird, that glad'st the skies,

To Daphne's window speed thy way; And there on quivering pinions rise,

And there thy vocal art display. And if she deign thy notes to hear,

And if she praise thy matin song, Tell her the sounds that sooth her ear,

To Dainon's native plains belong. Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd,

The bird from Indian groves may shine; But ask the lovely partial maid, What are his notes compar'd to thine ? Then bid her treat yon witless beau

And all his flaunting race with scorn ; And lend an ear to Damon's woe,

Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn,

SON G.

" Ah! ego non aliter tristes evincere morbos
“ Optarem, quam te sic quoque velle putem.”

On every tree, in every plain,
I trace the jovial spring in vain !
A sickly languor veils mine eyes,
And fast my waning vigour flies.
Nor flowery- plain, nor budding tree,
That smile on others, smile on me;
Mine eyes from death shall court repose,
Nor shed a tear before they close.

What bliss to me can seasons bring?
Or what the needless pride of spring?
The cypress bough, that suits the bier,
Retains its verdure all the year.
'Tis true, my vine so fresh and fair
Might claim awhile my wonted care;
My rural store some pleasure yield;
So white a flock, so green a field !
My friends, that each in kindness vie,
Might well expect one parting sigh;
Might well demand one tender tear;
For when was Damon insincere?
But ere I ask once more to view
Yon setting sun his race renew,
Inform me, swains; my friends, declare,
Will pitying Delia join the prayer ?

S O N G

The fatal hours are wondrous near,
That from these fountains bear my dear;
A little space is given ; in vain :
She robs my sight, and shuns the plain.
A little space, for me to prove
My boundless flame, my endless love;
And, like the train of vulgar hours,
Invidious time that space devours.
Near yonder beech is Delia's way
On that I gaze the livelong day;
No eastern monarch's dazzling pride
Shall draw my longing eyes aside.
The chief that knows of succours nigh,
And sees his mangled legions die,
Casts not a more impatient glance,
To see the loitering aids advance.

Not more, the school-boy that expires
Far from his native home, requires
To see some friend's familiar face,
Or meet a parent's last embrace-

She comes--but ah! what crowds of beaux
In radiant bands my fair enclose!
Oh! better hadst thou shunn'd the green,
Oh, Delia! better far unseen.

Methinks, by all my tender fears,
By all my sighs, by all my tears,
I might from torture now be free-
'Tis more than death to part from thee!

SONG

PERHAPS it is not love, said I,
That melts my soul when Flavia's nigh :
Where wit and sense like her's agree,
One may be pleas'd, and yet be free.

The beauties of her polish'd mind,
It needs no lover's eye to find ;
The hermit freezing in his cell,
Might wish the gentle Flavia well.
It is not love-averse to bear
The servile chain that lovers wear;
Let, let me all my fears remove,
My doubts dispel—it is not love-
Oh! when did wit so brightly shine
In
any

form less fair than thine?
It is—it is love's subtle fire,
And under friendship lurks desire.

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By the side of a grove, at the foot of a hill,
Where whisper'd the beech, and where murmur'd the

rill;
I vow'd to the muses my time and my care,
Since neither could win me the smiles of my fair.
Free I rang'd like the birds, like the birds free I sung,
And Delia's lov'd name scarce escap'd from my tongue,
But if once a smooth accent delighted my ear,
I should wish, unawares, that my Delia might hear.
With fairest ideas my bosom I stor’d,
Allusive to none but the nymph I ador'd!
And the more I with study my fancy refin'd,
The deeper impression she made on my mind.
So long as of nature the charms I

pursue,
I still must my Delia's dear image renew :
The graces have yielded with Delia to rove,
And the muses are all in alliance with love.

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Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay,

Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,

Oh! call the poor wanderers home.

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