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Ne envy I, if dear Ianthe smile, [style;
come; the birds the hymn of Nature sing,
shepherds play? Or choose you rather Theron's calm retreat, Embosom’d, Surrey, in thy verdant vale, At once the Muses' and the Graces' seat! There gently listen to my faithful tale. Along the dew-bright parterres let us rove, Or taste the odours of the mazy grove : Hark how the turtles coo: Ilanguish too with love. Amid the pleasaunce of Arcadian scenes, Love steals his silent arrows on my breast; Nor falls of water nor enameld greens Can soothe my anguish or invite to rest. You, dear Ianthe, you alone impart Balm to my wounds, and cordial to my smart : The apple of my eye, the life-blood of my heart.
With line of silk, with hook of barbed steel,
Woods, dales, and flocks, and herds, and cots, and
spires, Villas of learned clerks and gentle squires ; The villa of a friend the eyesight never tires. If e'er to thee and Venus, May, I strung The gladsome lyre, when livelood * swell’d my
veins, And Eden's nymphs and Isis' damsels sung In tender elegy t, and pastoral strains #; Collect and shed thyself on Theron's bowers, O green his gardens, o perfume his flowers, O bless his morning walks and soothe bis evening
hours. Long, Theron, with thy Annabel enjoy The walks of Nature, still to Virtue kiad, For sacred solitude can never cloy; The wisdom of an uncorrupted mind! O very long may Hymen's golden chain To earth confine you and the rural reign ; Then soar, at length, to heaven! nor pray, O
Muse, in vain. Where'er the Muses haunt, or poets muse, In solitary silence sweetly tired, Unloose thy bosom, May! thy stores effuse, Thy vernal stores, by poets most desired, Of living fountain, of the woodbine shade, Of Philomela, warbling from the glade. Thy bounty, in his verse, shall certes be repaid.
† Stella; sive Amores: Elegiarum Tres Libri. the year 1736.
Six Pastorals : written in the year 1734.
On Twitnam bowers (Aonian Twit'nam bowers!)
Hail, happy scenes, where Joy would choose to
dwell; Hail, golden days, which Saturn deems his own; Hail, music, which the Muses scant + excel; Hail, flowerets, not unworthy Venus' crown. Ye linnets, larks, ye thrushes, nightingales; Ye bills, ye plains, ye groves, ye streams, ye gales, Ye ever happy scenes! all you your Poet hails.
All hail to thee, O May! the crown of all!
IF aught of oaten stop or pastoral song
Like thy own brawling springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales ;
With brede ethereal wove,
O’erhang his wavy bed ;-
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some soften'd strain,
As, musing slow, I hail
For when thy folding star arising shows
The fragrant hours, and elves
. May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs, &c. Langhorne's edit.