H. The fhepherd mark'd his treacherous art, III. The flave in private only bears H SONG. ARD is the fate of him who loves, Yet dares not tell his trembling pain, But to the fympathetic groves, But to the lonely liftening plain. Oh! when the bleffes next your shade, Oh! when her footsteps next are seen In flowery tracts along the mead, In fresher mazes o'er the green, Ye gentle Spirits of the vale! To whom the tears of love are dear, From dying lilies waft a gale, And figh my forrows in her ear. O tell her what she cannot blame, Tho' fear my tongue must ever bind; O! tell her that my virtuous flame Is as her fpotlefs foul refin'd. Not her own guardian angel eyes With chafter tenderness his care, Nor purer her own wishes rife, Nor holier her own fighs in prayer. But if, at first, her virgin fear Should ftart at Love's fufpected name, With that of Friendship footh her earTrue love and friendship are the fame. SONGS. SONG. I. ONE day the God of fond defire On mischief bent, to Damon faid, Why not disclose your tender fire, Not own it to the lovely maid ? SONG. 1. U in vain I twine the woodbine bower'; NLESS with my Amanda bleft, Uniefs to deck her sweeter breast, II. Awaken'd by the genial year, 1.. F SONG. OR ever, Fortune! wilt thou prove For once, O Fortune! hear my prayer To feel the generous paffions rife, Come, thou delight of heaven and earth! SONG. COME, gentle God of foft defire! Come and poffefs my happy breaft, Not fury-like in flames and fire, Or frantic folly's wildness drest; But come in Friendship's angel-guife: Yet dearer thou than friendship art, More tender spirit in thy eyes, More fweet emotions at the heart. O come with Gooduefs in thy train, With Peace aud Pleafure, void of storm, And wouldst thou me for ever gain, Put on Amanda's winning form. A NUPTIAL SONG. Intended to have been inferted in the fourths Act of NOME, gentle Venus! and affuage But chief into the human heart H AN HYMN ON SOLITUDE. AIL mildly pleafing Solitude! Companion of the wife and good, But from whofe holy, piercing eye, The herd of fools and villains fly. Oh how I love with thee to walk, And listen to thy whifper'd talk, Which innocence and truth imparts, And melts the most obdurate hearts. A thousand fhapes you wear with ease, And ftill in every fhape you pleafe. Now wrapt in fome myfterious dream, A lone philofopher you feem; Now quick from hill to vale you fly, And now you weep the vaulted fky; A fhepherd next, you haunt the plain, And warble forth your caten ftrain. A lover now, with all the grace Of that fweet paffion in your face: Then, calm'd to friendship, you affume The gentle-looking Harford's bloom, As, with her Mufidora, the (Her Mufidora fond of thee) Amid the long-withdrawing vale, Awakes the rival'd nightingale. Thine is the balmy breath of Morn, Juft as the dew-bent rofe is born; And while meridian fervours beat, Thine is the woodland dumb retreat; But chief, when evening fcenes decay, And the faint landfcape fwims away, Thine is the doubtful foft decline, And that beft hour of mufing thing. Defcending angels biefs thy train, The virtues of the fage and fwain; Plain Innocence, in white array'd, Before thee lifts her fearless head; Religion's beams around thee shine, Oh! let me pierce thy fecret cell, Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill, END OF THE EIGHTH VOLUME. |