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The tuneful Pan retires; the vocal hills

Where all the Sister-Graces gay, Resound no more, and all Arcadia mourns. That shap'd his walk's meandering way,

Yet here we fondly dreamt of lasting joys : Stark-naked, or but wreath'd with flowers, Here we had hop'd, from noisy throngs retir'd, Lie slumbering soft beneath his bowers. To drink large draughts of friendship’s cordial Wak'd by the stock-dove's melting strain, stream ;

Behold them rise! and, with the train
In sweet oblivion wrapt, by Damon's verse, Of nymphs that haunt the stream or grove,
And social converse, many a summer's day. Or o'er the flowery champain rove,

Romantic wish! In vain frail mortals trace Join hand in hand attentive gaze
Th' imperfect sketch of human bliss whilst yet And mark the dance's mystic maze.
Th' enraptur'd fire his well-plann'd structure views, “ Such is the waving line," they cry,
Majestic rising 'midst his infant groves :

“ For ever dear to Fancy's eye !
Sees the dark laurel spread its glossy shade, Yon stream that wanders down the dale,
Its languid bloom the purple lilac blend,

The spiral wood, the winding vale, Or pale laburnum drop its pensile chain :

The path which, wrought with hidden skill, Death spreads the fatal shaft, and bids bis heir Slow twining scales yon distant hill Transplant the cypress round his father's tomb With fir invested all combine

Oh! teach me then, like you, my friend, to raise To recommend the waving line.
To moral truths my grovelling song; for, ah ! “ The wreathed rod of Bacchus fair,
Too long, by lawless Pancy led astray,

The ringlets of Apollo's hair,
Of nymphsand

groves I'vedreamt, and dancing fauns The wand by Maïa's offspring borne, Or Naïad leaning o'er her tinkling urn.

The smooth volutes of Ammon's horn, Oh! could I learn to sanctify my strains

The structure of the Cyprian dame, With hymns, like those by tuneful Meyrick sung—And each fair female's beauteous frame, Or rather catch the melancholy sounds

Show, to the pupils of design, From Warton's reed, or Mason's lyre-to paint The triumphs of the waving line.” The sudden gloom that damps my soul-But see ! Then gaze, and mark that union sweet, Melpomene herself has snatch'd the pipe,

Where fair convex and concave meet ; With which sad Lyttelton his Lucia mourn'd; And while, quick shifting as you stray, And plaintive cries, “My Shenstone is no more !" The vivid scenes on fancy play;

R. GRAVES. The lawn, of aspect smooth and mild ;

The forest-ground grotesque and wild ;
VERSES

The shrub that scents the mounting gale ;

The stream rough dashing down the dale,
WRITTEN AT THE GARDENS OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE,

From rock to rock, in eddies tost;
ESQUIRE, NEAR BIRMINGHAM, 1756.

The distant lake in which 't is lost;

Blue hills gay beaming through the glade; Ile terrarum mihi præter omnes

Lone urns that solemnize the shade; Angulus ridet.

HOR.

Sweet interchange of all that charms

In groves, meads, dingles, rivulets, farms; Would you these lord recesses trace,

If aught the fair confusion please, And view fair Nature's modest face?

With lasting health, and lasting ease, See her in every field-flower bloom?

To him who form'd the blissful bower, O'er every thicket shed perfume?

And gave thy life one tranquil bour; By verdant groves, and vocal hills,

Wish peace and freedom-these possest, By mossy grots, near purling rills,

His temperate mind secures the rest. Where'er you turn your wondering eyes,

But if thy soul such bliss despise, Behold her win without disguise.

Avert thy dull incurious eyes; What though no pageant trifles bere,

Go fix them there, where gems and gold, As in the glare of courts, appear ;

Improv'd by art, their power unfold; Though rarely here be heard the name

Go try in courtly scenes to trace Of rank, or title, power, or fame :

A fairer form of Nature's face: Yet, if ingenuous be your mind,

Go, scorn Simplicity-- but know, A bliss more pure and unconfin'd

That all our heart-felt joys below, Your step attends Draw freely nigh,

That all which virtue loves to name, And meet the Bard's benignant eye:

Which art consigns to lasting fame, On him no pedant forms await,

Which fixes wit or beauty's throne, No prond reserve shuts up his gate ;

Derives its source from Her alone, No spleen, no party views control

ARCADIQ That warın benevolence of soul, Which prompts the friendly generous part, Regardless of each venal art;

TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ES Regardless of the world's acclaim; And courteous with no selfish aim.

IN HIS SICKNESS.
Draw freely nigh, and welcome find,

BY MR. WOODHOUSE.
If not the costly, yet the kind.
Oh, he will lead you to the cells

Ye flowery plains, ye breezy woods,
Where every Muse and Virtue dwells,

Ye bowers and gay alcoves, Where the green Dryads guard his woods,

Ye falling streams, ye silver floods, Where the blue Naiads guide his floods;

Ye grottacs, and ye groves !

Alas! my heart feels no delight,

Blest power, who calm'st the raging deep, Though I your charms survey;

His valued health restore, While he consumes in pain the night,

Nor let the sons of genius weep, In languid sighs the day.

Nor let the good deplore ! The flowers disclose a thousand blooms,

But if thy boundless wisdom knows A thousand scents diffuse;

His longer date an ill, Yet all in vain they shed perfumes,

Let not my soul a wish disclose
In vain display their hues.

To contradict thy will.
Restrain, ye flowers, your thoughtless pride, Por happy, happy were the change,
Recline your gaudy heads;

For such a god-like mind,
And sadly drooping, side by side,

To go where kindred spirits range, Embrace your humid beds.

Nor leave a wish behind. Tall oaks, that o'er the woodland shade,

And though, to share his pleasures here, Your lofty summits rear!

Kings might their state forego: Ah, why, in wonted charms array'd,

Yet must he feel such raptures there, Expand your leaves so fair!

As none can taste below,
For lo, the flowers as gaily smile,

As wanton waves the tree;
And though I sadly plain the while,

VERSES
Yet they regard not me.

LEFT ON A SEAT, THE HAND UNKNOWN. Ah, should the Fates an arrow send, And strike the fatal wound,

O EARTH! to his remains indulgent be, Who, who shall then your sweets defend,

Who so much care and cost bestow'd on thee ! Or fence your beauties round ?

Who crown'd thy barren hills with useful shade,

And cheer'd with tinkling rills each silent glade ; But hark, perhaps, the plumy throng

Here taught the day to wear a thoughtful gloom, Have learnt my plaintive tale,

And there enliven’d Nature's vernal bloom. And some sad dirge, or mournful song,

Propitious earth! lie lightly on his head, Comes floating in the gale.

And ever on his tomb thy vernal glories spread ! Ah, no! they chant a sprightly strain,

Po soothe an amorous mate ; Unmindful of my anxions pain And his uncertain fate.

CORYDON, A PASTORAL. But see, these little murmuring rills

TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESC. With fond repinings rove; And trickle wailing down the hills,

Come, shepherds, we'll follow the hearse, Or weep along the grove.

And see our lov'd Corydon laid :

Though sorrow may blemish the verse, Oh, mock not, if beside your stream,

Yet let the sad tribute be paid. Ye hear me too repine;

They call’d him the pride of the plain ; Or aid with sighs your mournful theme,

In sooth, he was gentle and kind; And fondly call him mine.

He mark'd in his elegant strain

The graces that glow'd in his mind.
Ye envious winds, the cause display,
In whispers as ye blow,

On purpose he planted yon trees,
Why did your treacherous gales convey

That birds in the covert might dwell; The poison'd shafts of woe ?

He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,

But never would rifle their cell. Did he not plant the shady bower,

Ye lambkins, that play'd at his feet, Where you so blithely meet?

Go bleat-and your master bemoan; The scented shrub, and fragrant flower,

His music was artless and sweet, To make your breezes sweet?

His manners as mild as your own. And must he leave the wood, the field,

No verdure shall cover the vale, The dear Arcadian reign?

No bloom on the blossoms appear ; Can neither verse nor virtue shield

The sweets of the forest shall fail, The guardian of the plain?

And Winter discolour the year. Must he his tuneful breath resign,

No birds in our hedges shall sing Whom all the Muses love?

(Our hedges so vocal before,) That round bis brow their laurels twine,

Since he that should welcome the Spring, And all his songs approve.

Can greet the gay season no more. Preserve him, mild Omnipotence !

His Phyllis was fond of his praise, Our Father, King, and God,

And poets came round in a throng ; Who clear'st the paths of life and sense,

They listen'd, and envied his lays, Or stopp'st them at thy nod.

But which of them equal'd his song?

Ye shepherds, henceforward be mute,

Morte, eheu! præmaturà obrepte, For lost is the pastoral strain;

Ah! Gulielme, So give me my Corydon's fute,

Vale! And thus-let me break it in twain.

" Quanto minus est,

Cum aliis versari,
J. CUNNINGHAM.

Quam tui meminisse !

T. H.

M. S. GULIELMI SHENSTONE !

Ah ! Gulielme,
Hominum dignissime,
Amicorum integerrime,

Indole optimâ,
Moribus gratissimis,

Eruditione diffusâ,
Ac corde quam maxime benigno

Prædite,

EXTRACT FROM MR. MASON'S ENGLISH

GARDEN, Book I.
· Nor, Shenstone, thou
Shalt pass without thy meed, thou son of peace !
Who knew'st, perchance, to harmonize thy shades,
Still softer than thy song ; yet was that song
Nor rude, nor inharmonious, when attun'd
To pastoral plaint, or tale of slighted love.

THE

POEMS

OP

EDWARD YOUNG, L.L.D. ·

VOL. XIII.

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