Then feek remoter worlds, where Ganges pours
His fwelling ftream; beyond Hydafpes' fhores,
Through Indian realms to carry dire alarms,
And make the hardy Scythian dread your arms.
But fay this wondrous race of glory run,
When we return, fay what fhall then be done?
Then pleas'd, my friend, we'll spend the joyful day
In full delight, and laugh our cares away.
And why not now? Alas! Sir, need we roam
For this fo far, or quit our native home?
No-let us now each valued hour employ,
Nor for the future lofe the prefent joy.
OLACE of life, my fweet companion lyre! On this fair poplar bough I'll hang thee high, While the gay fields all soft delights inspire, And not one cloud deforms the smiling sky.
While whispering gales, that court the leaves and flowers,
Play through thy ftrings, and gently make them found, Luxurious I'll dissolve the flowing hours
In balmy flumbers on the carpet ground.
But fee-what sudden gloom obfcures the air!
What falling fhowers impetuous change the day!
Let's rife, my lyre-Ah Pleasure false as fair!
How faithlefs are thy charms, how short thy stay!
E Mufes, that frequent these walks and shades,
The feat of calm repose,
Which Howard's happy genius chofe;
Where, taught by you, his Lyre he strung,
And oft, like Philomel, in dusky glades,
Sweet amorous Voluntaries fung!
O fay, ye kind inspiring powers!
With what melodious strain
Will you indulge my penfive vein,
And charm my folitary hours?
Begin, and Echo fhall the fong repeat;
While, skreen'd from Auguft's feverish heat,
Beneath this spreading elm I lie,
And view the yellow harveft far around,
The neighbouring fields with plenty crown'd, And over head a fair unclouded sky.
The wood, the park's romantic scene,
The deer, that innocent and gay
On the soft turf's perpetual green
Pafs all their lives in love and play,
Are various objects of delight,
That sport with fancy, and invite
Your aid, the pleasure to compleat;
Begin-and Echo shall the song repeat.
Hark! the kind inspiring powers
Anfwer from their fecret bowers,
Propitious to my call!
They join their choral voices all,
To charm my folitary hours.
Liften, they cry, thou penfive fwain!
Though much the tuneful fifters love
The fields, the park, the fhady grove:
The fields, and park, and fhady grove,
The tuneful fifters now difdain,
And chufe to footh thee with a sweeter strain ;
Molinda's praifes fhall our fkill employ,
Molinda, Nature's pride, and every Mufe's joy!
The Mufes triumph'd at her birth,
When, firft defcending from her parent skies,
This ftar of beauty fhot to earth;
Love faw the fires that darted from her eyes,
He faw, and fmil'd-the winged boy,
Gave early omens of her conquering fame,
And to his mother lifp'd her name,
Molinda!-Nature's pride, and every Mufe's joy.
Say, beauteous Afted! has thy honour'd shade
Ever receiv'd that lovely maid?
Ye nymphs and sylvan deities, confess
That shining feftal day of happiness !
For if the lovely maid was here,
April himself, though in so fair a dress
He clothe the meads, though his delicious flowers, Awake the bloffoms and the breathing flowers,
And new-create the fragrant year;
April himself, or brighter May,
Affifted by the god of day,
Never made your grove so gay,
Or half fo full of charms appear.
Whatever rural feat the now doth grace,
And fhines a goddess of the plains,
Imperial Love new triumphs there ordains,
Removes with her from place to place,
With her he keeps his court, and where she lives he reigns.
A thousand bright attendants more
Her glorious equipage compofe :
There circling Pleasure ever flows:
Friendship, and Arts, a well-selected store,
Good-humour, Wit, and Mufick's foft delight,
The shorten'd minutes there beguile,
And sparkling Mirth, that never looks fo bright, As when it lightens in Molinda's smile.
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