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BY MR. SHAW.
Ask not why oft my charmed sight
I bend along that lawn and grove,
Along that mountain side to rove,
That other lawns and groves surpass ;
And thinly shade its walks of grass ; Thru' whispering reeds that streamlet glides, And humbie osiers crown its sides.
But, ah! this is the well-known space,
Seen after tedious years are past, Within whose bound which well I trace,
My part of sprightly youth was cast : My infant steps have trød this green, These banks iny early sports
have O! haunts, long from my sight withdrawn,
Oft to my mind by fancy brought, How gladly now I trace each lawn,
Where jocund youth its pleasures sought, Where I was wont in careless play With Lycon oft to waste the day.
Can'st thou not tell, O limpid stream!
For far we stray'd not from thy side,
We wont to'plunge into thy tide,
We bent our sportive bows at morn,
We urg'd the chace with sounding horn,
When love first taught me hir soft law,
The blooming Myra first I saw: How beauteous was she by that wood ! How gazing on the nymph I stood ! From yonder mead, to grace her hair,
I cull’d the lily and fresh rose, In yonder bower, to soothe the fair,
Soft numbers for my reed I chose ; We sat beneath yon poplar shade, These willows heard the vows we made.
But why these scenes should I retrace,
Nor seek to taste such joys again? The lawn, the grove, each well-known place,
The hill and limpid stream remain; The poplars green their shadows spread, And May with fresh flowers crowns the mead. Then bring to me my polish'd bow,
And bring the pipe of tuneful breath,
And let me twine a fragrant wreath,
And from the stream that glides below,
Whose tender accents feebly flow, 6 Forbear, fond man, it seems to say, Forbear and chase these dreams away. The hill, the lawn, the well-known bowers,
The mead and silver stream remain,
To crown once more the dewy plain :
Thy art may teach the pipe to blow,
Thy hand may grasp the bow once more, But can the pipe or polish'd bow
Thy careless youth to thee restore? Or can the flowery garland chace The wrinkles printed on thy face? Will Lycon now his bed forsake
If thou at dawn shalt wind the horn? Will Myra at thy call awake
If thy soft flute resound at morn? Ah! no: dark tombs their ashes keep, Within the peaceful grove they sleep.
Then rather go to yon dark towers
Along whose walls pale ivy creeps,
Where Lycon near thy Myra sleeps,
Calls back those golden days again
When Lycon trod with thee the plain,
Thy dwelling with them in the grave." 1776.
BY THE LATE DR. HORNE, BISHOP OF NORWICII.
We all do fade as a Leaf.
ISAIAH Ixiv. 6.
See the leaves around us falling,
Dry and wither'd to the ground;
In a sad and solemn sound:
Blighted when like us he fell,
'Tis, alas ! the truth we tella
Virgins, much, too much, presuming On
your boasted white and red, View us, late in beauty blooming,
Number'd now among the dead. Griping misers, nightly waking,
See the end of all your care; Fled on wings of our own making,
We have left our owners bare. Sons of honour, fed on praises,
Flutt'ring high' in fancied worth, Lo! the fickle air, that raises,
Brings us down to parent earth. Learned sophs, in systems jaded,
Who for new ones daily call, Cease, at length, by us persuaded,
Ev'ry leaf must have its fall! Youths, tho' yet no losses grieve you,
Gay in health and manly, grace, Let not cloudless skies deceive you,
Summer gives to Autumn place. Venerable sires, grown hoary,
Hither turn th' unwilling eye, Think, amid your falling glory,
Autumn tells a winter nigh. Yearly in our course returning
Messengers of shortest stay, Thus we preach this truth concerning,
· Heav'n and earth shall pass away.' On the Tree of Life eternal,
Man, let all thy hope be staid, Which alone, forever vernal,
Bears a Leaf that shall not fade.