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I love thy chequer'd hour;
Fans the bright bowers above;
Where all is youth and love!
Nor wing'd the appointed dove
P. L. C. APRIL 28, 1805.
BY RICHARD FENTON, ESQ. TELL
me, what can mean this riot In my pulse when Damon's nigh; That my breast is never quiet,
Ever heaving with a sigh ?
Then, O tell me what am I?
By each pulse betray'd, and sigh,
And a thousand in the eye, Which to Damon will discover What it is to be a lover,
And to tell him, what am I. VOL. VI.
THE TEARS OF ASTROP.
AN EPISTLE TO MISS HARRIET BLOSSET.
BY MICHAEL WODHULL, ESQ.
Gli angelici sembianti nati in cielo
" Can the blest swains of Astrop pine,
In these light strains exclaim'd some youth,
In every sentimental breast; • Michaelmas-day, annually commemorated at Astrop Wells, in Northamptonshire.
* Young stranger, whosoe'er thou art,
(For sure it ought to be believed, “ Since in my pangs thou bear'st no part, “ Far from my source, in some bleak wild, * Where Wit and Beauty never smild, “ Thou drew'st thy natal breath) attend, “ And make our wretchedness thy own; “Not that yon lowering clouds impend, “ Not that we view these groves bereav'd « Of leafy honours, do we moan; " But that from these neglected shades, “Anticipating Winter's reign, “ Fair Harriet flies; who, midst the maids “ That haunt the margin of yon stream,
Winding along my fertile plain, “ Shone with unrivall’d elegance; « Of these unbidden tears, that force “ Their passage, she, the conscious theme, “ Flies, unrelenting as the wind, “ Nor casts one pitying glance behind, “ To bid these meads a last adieu : “ Hadst thou beheld that graceful ease “ With which she trod, in mazy dance "My fragrant vales and woodbine bowers,
Slighting applause, secure to please,
When, votary of the rural powers, " She quitted Thames's banks, resign'd 6 The studied ornaments of dress, “ And look'd, and was, a Shepherdess, " Thou too badst sympathiz'd with these, “ Whose smart excites thy gaiety. “ Whether to term such ignorance « Of this transcendant fair, mischance, “ Or bliss, I hesitate; beware " Rashly the magic cup to share
« Of dangerous Sensibility,
He ended ; and the bubbling fount,
O, form’d to shine in every sphere !
Old legend tells, on Ida's hill, With winged Hermes for their guide, Erst to the Phrygian shepherd's will Contending Goddesses applied, And, urging eagerly their suit, Tho' with each boon of Heaven endued, O'erjoyed with the vicissitude, Sought from his hand the golden fruit. Should you, like these, awhile forego The surer triumphs of your eyes, Thro' curiosity to know, If aught of ancient tąste remains Among us simple village swains, And from our verdict seek the prize; Boldly with an applauding voice Should we decide, nor fear, lest Age, Or miserable Envy's rage, Might deem us biass’d in our choice: Each snarling censor we defy Whose honest judgement truth ensures Against that idle calumny, That, with a Venus' person caught, Minerva's wit we little sought When either claim confirms it yours.
Alas, in such untutor'd plains, Ill can these rustic fingers hold A lyre, attemper'd to the strains In which immortal Chaulieu told Of Turenne snatch'd from Victory's arms, Of Bethune's wisdom, Bouillon's charms, And Steinkerque's memorable day; Indeed, like Orpheus' magic song His drew no listening brutes along, But in a light and polish'd age,