By thee more sweetly smells the rose, And boasts a brighter dye. By thee I tafte the luscious sweets By thee I laugh, or cheerful fing, When Cloe tunes her liquid voice, By thee the founds melodious pierce, By thee the poet's charming lays By thee the scientific page The scholar's eye delights; By thee he shares the feast of wit, With thee we taste the joys of wine, CONTENT. A PASTORAL. BY CUNNINGHAM. 45 O'ER moorlands and mountains rude, barren, and bare, A gentle young fhepherdess fees my despair, Yellow fheafs from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd, Green rushes were ftrew'd on her floor, Her cafement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round, And deck'd the fod feats at the door. We fate ourselves down to a cooling repast, Fresh fruits!---and the cull'd me the best; Whilft, thrown from my guard, by some glances she Love flyly stole into my breast. I told my foft wishes---The fweetly reply'd, I've rich ones rejected, and great ones deny'd; Her air was fo modeft, her aspect fo meek, I kifs'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek, [caft, Now jocund together we tend a few sheep; And if---on the banks by the stream, Reclin'd on her bofom I fink into fleep, Her image still foftens my dream. Together we range o'er the flow-rifing hills, Or reft on the rock whence the streamlet diftills, To pomp or proud titles fhe ne'er did aspire, The cottager Peace is well known for her fire, A PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE. BY MRS. GREVILLE. OFT I've implor'd the gods in vain, And pray'd till I've been weary; For once I'll try my wifh to gain Sweet airy being, wanton sprite, That lurk'ft in woods unfeen; And oft by Cynthia's filver light If e'er thy pitying heart was mov'd, And for th' Athenian maid who lov'd, Oh! deign once more t'exert thy power; Sov'reign as juice of western flower, I ask no kind return of love, No tempting charm to please: Nor peace nor ease the heart can know, Far as diftrefs the foul can wound, 'Tis pain in each degree: 'Tis blifs but to a certain bound; Beyond, is agony. Take then this treacherous fenfe of mine, Which dooms me still to smart; Oh, hafte to shed the facred balm! At her approach, fee Hope, fee Fear, And Disappointment in the rear, The tear which pity taught to flow, The eye fhall then disown: The heart that melts for others woe, The wounds which now each moment bleed, To nights of calm repose. O, fairy elf! but grant me this, |