From the once pleasing rural throng
Remov'd, he'll through the desert stray,
Where Philomela's mournful song

Shall join his melancholy lay."

SONG.

AMIDST a rosy bank of flowers,
Damon, forlorn, deplor'd his fate;
In sighs he spent his languid hours,
And breath'd his woes in doleful state.

No more shall gaiety cheer his mind ;
No wanton sports can sooth his care;
Since sweet Amanda prov'd unkind,
And left him full of black despair.

His looks, that were as fresh as morn,
Can now no longer smiles impart ;
His pensive soul, on sadness borne,
Is rack'd and torn by Cupid's dart.

Turn, fair Amanda! cheer your swain;
Unshroud him from his veil of woe :
Turn, gentle nymph! and ease the pain
That in his tortur'd breast doth grow.

EXTEMPORE,

On being asked which of three Sisters was the most
Beautiful.

WHEN Paris gave his voice, in Ida's grove,
For the resistless Venus, queen of love,

'Twas no great task to pass a judgment there, Where she alone was exquisitely fair':

But here, what could his ablest judgment teach? When wisdom, power, and beauty, reign in each ? The youth, nonplus'd, behov'd to join with me, And wish the apple had been cut in three.

ON SEEING A LADY PAINT HERSELF.

WHEN, by some misadventure cross'd,
The banker hath his fortune lost,
Credit his instant need supplies,
And for a moment blinds our eyes:
So Delia, when her beauty's flown,
Trades on a bottom not her own,
And labours to escape detection,
By putting on a false complexion.

EXTEMPORE,

On seeing Stanzas addressed to Mrs Hartley, Comedian, wherein she is described as resembling Mary Queen of Scots.

HARTLEY resembles Scotland's Queen,

Some bard enraptur'd cries;

A flattering bard he is, I ween,

Or else the painter lies.

ON THE DEATH OF

MR THOMAS LANCASHIRE, COMEDIAN.

ALAS, poor Tom! how oft with merry heart Have we beheld thee play the sexton's part! Each comic heart must now be griev'd to see The sexton's dreary part perform'd on thee.

TO THE MEMORY OF

JOHN CUNNINGHAM THE POET.

Sing his praises that doth keep
Our flocks from harm,

Pan, the father of our sheep;

And, arm in arm,

Tread we softly in a round,

While the hollow neighbouring ground

Fills the music with her sound.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

YE mournful meanders and groves,
Delight of the muse and her song!
Ye grottos and dripping alcoves,
No strangers to Corydon's tongue!

Let each Sylvan and Dryad declare
His themes and his music how dear;
Their plaints and their dirges prepare,
Attendant on Corydon's bier.

The echo that join'd in the lay,
So amorous, sprightly, and free,
Shall send forth the sounds of dismay,
And sigh with sad pity for thee.

Wild wander his flocks with the breeze;
His reed can no longer controul;
His numbers no longer can please,
Or send kind relief to the soul.

But long may they wander and bleat;
To hills tell the tale of their woe;
The woodlands the tale shall repeat,
And the waters shall mournfully flow.

For these were the haunts of his love,
The sacred retreats of his ease,
Where favourite Fancy would rove,
As wanton, as light as the breeze.

Her zone will discolour'd appear,
With fanciful ringlets unbound;
A face pale and languid she'll wear,

A heart fraught with sorrow profound.

The reed of each shepherd will mourn;
The shades of Parnassus decay;
The Muses will dry their sad urn,
Since reft of young Corydon's lay.

To him every passion was known
That throbb'd in the breast with desire;
Each gentle affection was shewn

In the soft-sighing songs of his lyre.

Like the caroling thrush on the spray
In music soft warbling and wild,

To love was devoted each lay,

In accents pathetic and mild.

Let beauty and virtue revere,

And the songs of the shepherd approve,
Who felt, who lamented the snare,
When repining at pitiless love.

The Summer but languidly gleams;
Pomona no comfort can bring;
Nor valleys, nor grottos, nor streams,
Nor the May-born flowerets of Spring.

They've fled all with Corydon's muse,
For his brows to form chaplets of woe;
Whose reed oft awaken'd their boughs,
As the whispering breezes that blow.

To many a fanciful spring

His lyre was melodiously strung; While fairies and fauns, in a ring,

Have applauded the swain as he sung.

To the cheerful he usher'd his smiles;
To the woful, his sigh and his tear;
A condoler with want and her toils,
When the voice of oppression was near.

Though titles and wealth were his due ; Though fortune denied his reward; Yet truth and sincerity knew

What the goddess would never regard.

Avails aught the generous heart,
Which nature to goodness design'd,
If fortune denies to impart

Her kindly relief to the mind?