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DAM O N.
TO SIR WILLIAM TRUMBAL.
IRST in these fields I try the fylvan strains, Nor blush to sport on Windfor's blissful plains: Fair Thames, flow gently from thy facred spring, While on thy banks Sicilian Mufes fing; Ļet vernal airs through trembling ofiers play, And Albion's cliffs refound the rural lay.
You that, too wife for pride, too good for power, Enjoy the glory to be great no more,
And, carrying with all the world can boast,
O let my Mufe her flender reed inspire,
Soon as the flocks fhook off the nightly dews, Two Swains, whom Love kept wakeful, and the Muse,
Pour'd o'er the whitening vale their fleecy care,
The dawn now blushing on the mountain's fide,
Hear how the birds, on every bloomy fpray, With joyous music wake the dawning day! Why fit we mute, when early linnets fing, When warbling Philomel falutes the fpring? Why fit we fad, when Phosphor fhines fo clear, And lavish Nature paints the purple year?
Sing then, and Damon fhall attend the ftrain,
And I this bowl, where wanton ivy twines,
And what is that, which binds the radiant sky,
Ver. 34. The first reading was,
And his own image from the bank furveys.
Then fing by turns, by turns the Muses fing, Now hawthorns blossom, now the daisies spring, Now leaves the trees, and flowers adorn the ground; Begin, the vales shall every note rebound.
Inspire me, Phœbus, in my Delia's praise,
O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize,
Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain,
Then, hid in fhades, eludes her eager
The fprightly Sylvia trips along the green,
Ver. 49. Originally thus in the MS.
Pan, let my numbers equal Strephon's lays,
O'er golden fands let rich Pactolus flow,
Celestial Venus haunts Idalia's groves;
If Windfor shades delight the matchless maid,
All nature mourns, the fkies relent in fhowers, Hufh'd are the birds, and clos'd the drooping flowers; If Delia fmile, the flowers begin to spring,
The skies to brighten, and the birds to fing.
Ver. 61. It stood thus at first :
Let rich Iberia golden fleeces boast,
Ver. 61. Originally thus in the MS.
Go, flowery wreath, and let my Sylvia know,
Go, tuneful bird, that pleas'd the woods fo long,
To Heav'n arifing then her notes convey,