To cach I give. A mizzling mist defcends
Adown that steepy rock: and this way tends
Yon diftant rain. Shoreward the veffels ftrive;
And, fee, the boys their flocks to fhelter drive.

THE STRAY

NY MPH.

EASE your mufic, gentle fwains:
Delia cross the plains?

Saw ye

Every thicket, every grove,

Have I rang'd, to find iny love:
A kid, a lamb, my flock, I give,
Tell me only, doth fhe live?
White her fkin as mountain-fhow;
In her cheek the rofes blow:
And her eye is brighter far
Than the beamy morning ftar.
When her ruddy lip ye view,
"Tis a berry moist with dew:
And her breath, oh, 'tis a gake
Paffing o'er a fragrant vale,
Pafling, when a friendly fhower
Freshens every herb and flower..
Wide her bofom opens, gay
As the primrofe-dell in May,
Sweet as violet-borders growing
Over fountains ever-flowing.
Like the tendrils of the vine,
Do her auburn treffes twine,

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12

16

20

Glolly

Gloffy ringlets all behind

Streaming buxom to the wind,

When along the lawn the bounds,
Light, as hind before the hounds:
And the youthful ring the fires
Hopeless in their fond defires,
As her flitting feet advance,
Wanton in the winding dance.

Tell me, shepherds, have ye seen

My delight, my love, my queen ?

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28.

32

THE HAPPY SWAIN.

AVE ye feen the morning fky,

HAVE

When the dawn prevails on high,

When, anon, fome purply ray

Gives a fample of the day,

When, anon, the lark, on wing,

Strives to foar, and strains to fing?"

Have ye feen th' ethereal blue

Gently shedding filvery dew,

Spangling o'er the filent

green,

While the nightingale, unfeen,
To the moon and ftars, full bright,
Lonefome chants the hymn of night?
Have ye feen the broider'd May
All her fcented bloom display,
Breezes opening, every hour,
This, and that, expecting flower,

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16

While the mingling birds prolong,
From each bush, the vernal fong?

Have ye feen the damask-rofe
Her unfully'd blufh difclofe,
Or the lily's dewy bell,
In her gloffy white, excell,
Or a garden vary'd o'er
With a thousand glories more?
By the beauties thefe difplay,
Morning, evening, night, or day,
By the pleasures thefe excite,
Endlefs fource of delight!

Judge, by them, the joys I find,
Since my Rofalind was kind,
Since he did herself refign
To my vows, for ever mine.

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32

EPISTLE.S.

EPISTLE S.

TO A FRIEND,

WHO

DESIRED ME TO WRITE ON THE DEATH OF KING WILLIAM.

TRUS

April 20, 1702.

RUST me, dear George, could I in verfe but show What forrow I, what forrow all men, owe To Naffau's fate, or could I hope to raise A fong proportion'd to the monarch's praife, Could I his merits, or my grief, express, And proper thoughts in proper language dress, Unbidden should my pious numbers flow, The tribute of a heart o'ercharg'd with woe; But, rather than prophane his facred hearfe With languid praises, and unhallow'd verse, My fighs I to myself in filence keep, And inwardly, with fecret anguish, weep.

Let Halifax's Mufe (he knew him well)
His virtues to fucceeding ages tell.

Let him, who fung the warrior on the Boyne,
(Provoking Dorfet in the task to join)
And fhew'd the hero more than man before,-
Let him th' illuftrious mortal's fate deplore;

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A mourn

:

A mournful theme: while, on raw pinions, I
But flutter, and make weak attempts to fly :
Content, if, to divert my vacant time,
I can but like fome love-fick fopling rhyme,
To fome kind-hearted mistress make my court,
And, like a modish wit, in sonnet sport.

Let others, more ambitious, rack their brains

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24

In polish'd fentiments, and labour'd strains:

To blooming Phyllis I a fong compofe,

And, for a rhyme, compare her to the rofe;

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Then, while my fancy works, I write down morn,

To paint the blush that does her cheek adorn,

And, when the whitenefs of her skin I show,
With ecftafy bethink myfelf of fnow.

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Thus, without pains, I tinkle in the clofe,

And fweeten into verfe infipid profe.

The country scraper, when he wakes his crowd,

And makes the tortur'd cat-gut fqueak aloud,

36

Is often ravish'd, and in tranfport loft:

What more, my friend, can fam'd Corelli boaft,

When harmony herself from heaven defcends,

And on the artift's moving bow attends?

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Why then, in making verfes, fhould I ftrain

For wit, and of Apollo beg a vein ?

Who ftudy Horace and the Stagyrite ?

Why cramp my dulnefs, and in torment write ?

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Let me tranfgrefs by nature, not by rule,

An artless idiot, not a study'd fool,

A Withers, not a Rymer, fince I aim

At nothing lefs, in writing, than a name.

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