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III.

Her air was fo modeft, her afpect so meek;
So fimple, yet sweet, were her charms;
I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,
And lock'd the lov'd maid in my arms.

Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,
And if, by yon prattler, the ftream,
Reclin❜d on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image ftill foftens my dream.

IV.

Together we range o'er the flow rising hills,

Delighted with pastoral views,

Or reft on the rock whence the ftreamlet diftils,
And point out new themes for my muse.

To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,
The damfel's of humble defcent;

The cottager, Peace, is well known for her fire,
And shepherds have nam'd her CONTENT.

CORY,

COR Y D ON:

A PASTORAL.

To the Memory of WILLIAM SHEN STONE, Efq;

BY THE SAME.

I.

NOME, fhepherds, we'll follow the hearfe,

COM

We'll fee our lov'd Corydon laid,

Tho' forrow may blemish the verse,

Yet let a fad tribute be paid.

They call'd him the pride of the plain;
In footh he was gentle and kind!

He mark'd on his elegant ftrain

The graces that glow'd in his mind.

II.

On purpose he planted yon trees,

That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,
But never wou'd rifle their cell.

Ye lambkins that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat-and your mafter bemoan;

His mufic was artless and sweet,

His manners as mild as your own.

III. No

III.

No verdure shall cover the vale,

No bloom on the blossoms appear; The sweets of the forest shall fail,

And winter discolour the year.

No birds in our hedges shall fing,

(Our hedges so vocal before)
Since he that should welcome the spring,

the
gay

season no more.

Can greet

IV. His Phillis was fond of his praise,

And poets came round in a throng; They listen’d,--they envy'd his lays,

But which of them equal'd his song?

Ye shepherds, henceforward be mute,

For lost is the pastoral strain; So give me my Corydon's flute,

And thus-let me break it in twain.

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I.
IGHTSOME, as convey'd by sparrows,

Love and beauty crof'd the plains,
Flights of little pointed arrows

Love dispatch'd among the fwains,

L

4

Bot

But fo much our fhepherds dread him,
(Spoiler of their peace profound)
Swift as fcudding fawns they fled him
Frighten'd, tho' they felt no wound.

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Prais'd the fly musician's art;
Love, his light disguise rejecting,
Lodg'd an arrow in his heart.

Cupid will enforce your duty,
Shepherds, and would have you taught,
Thofe that timid fly from beauty

May by MELODY be caught.

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THE HOUSE OF SUPERSTITION.

A VISI O N.

BY MR. DENTON.

W

I.

'HEN fleep's all-foothing hand with fetters foft Ties down each fenfe, and lulls to balmy reft, The internal pow'r, creative fancy, oft

Broods o'er her treasures in the formful breaft.
Thus when no longer daily cares engage,
The bufy mind purfues the darling theme;
Hence angels whisper'd to the flumb'ring fage,
And gods of old inspir'd the hero's dream;
Hence as I flept, these images arose

To fancy's eye, and join'd this fairy scene compofe.

II.

As, when fair morning tries her pearly tears,
The mountain lifts o'er mifts its lofty head;

'Thus new to fight a Gothic dome appears
With the grey ruft of rolling years o'erfpread.
Here Superftition holds her dreary reign,

And her lip-labour'd orifons fhe plies

In tongue unknown, when morn bedews the plain,
Or ev❜ning fkirts with gold the western skies

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