A PARODY.
WHEN firft, Philander, first I came
Where Avon rolls his winding ftream,
The nymphs-how brifk! the fwains-how gay!
To fee Afteria, Queen of May !-
The parfons round, her praises fung!
The steeples, with her praises rung!
I thought-no fight, that e'er was feen,
Could match the fight of Barel's-green!
But now, fince old Eugenio dy'd-
The chief of poets, and the pride-
Now, meaner bards in vain aspire
To raise their voice, to tune their lyre!
Their lovely season, now, is o'er !
Thy notes, Florelio, please no more!
No more Afteria's fmiles are seen!-
Adieu!-the fweets of Barel's-green!
THE HALCYON.
WHY o'er the verdant banks of Ooze
Does yonder halcyon speed so fast?
'Tis all because she would not lofe
Her favourite calm that will not last.
The fun with azure paints the skies,
The stream reflects each flowery spray:
And frugal of her time the flies
To take her fill of love and play.
See her, when rugged Boreas blows,
Warm in fome rocky cell remain ;
To feek for pleasure, well fhe knows,
Would only then enhance the pain.
Defcend, the cries, thou hated shower,
Deform my limpid waves to-day,
For I have chofe a fairer hour
To take my fill of love and play.
You too, my Silvia, fure will own
Life's azure feafons fwiftly roll:
And when our youth or health is flown,
To think of love but fhocks the foul.
Could Damon but deserve thy charms,
As thou art Damon's only theme;
He'd fly as quick to Delia's arms,
As yonder halcyon skims the stream.
So well our minds and tempers blend;
That feasons may for ever flee,
And ne'er divide me from my But let the favour'd boy forbear To tempt with love my only fair.
O Lycon, born when every Mufe,
When every Grace benignant smil'd, With all a parent's breast could chufe To blefs her lov'd, her only child :
'Tis thine, so richly grac'd to prove More noble cares, than cares of love. Together we from early youth
Have trod the flowery tracks of time, Together mus'd in search of truth,
O'er learned fage, or bard fublime;
And well thy cultur'd breast I know,
What wonderous treasure it can fhow.
Come then, refume thy charming lyre,
And fing fome patriot's worth fublime,
Whilft I in fields of foft defire
Confume my fair and fruitless prime;
Whofe reed afpires but to display
The flame that burns me night and day.
O come! the dryads of the woods
Shall daily foothe thy ftudious mind,
The blue-ey'd nymphs of yonder floods
Shall meet and court thee to be kind;
And Fame fits liftening for thy lays
To fwell her trump with Lucio's praise.
Like me, the plover fondly tries
To lure the fportfmen from her neft,
And fluttering on with anxious cries,
Too plainly fhews her tortur'd breast:
O let him, confcious of her care,
Pity her pains, and learn to spare.
To the Honourable Sir RICHARD LYTTELTON.
HE morn difpens'd a dubious light,
A fullen mist had ftol'n from fight
Each pleafing vale and hill;
When Damon left his humble bowers,
To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers,
Or check his wandering rill.
Though school'd from fortune's paths to fly,
The fwain beneath each lowering sky,
Would oft his fate bemoan;
That he in fylvan fhades, forlorn!
Muft wafte his chearless ev'n and morn,
Nor prais❜d nor lov'd, nor known.
No friend to fame's obftreperous noife,
Yet to the whispers of her voice,
Soft murmuring, not a foe:
The pleasures he through choice declin'd,
When gloomy fogs deprefs'd his mind,
It griev'd him to forego.
Griev'd him to lurk the lakes befide,
Where coots in rufhy dingles hide,
And moorcocks fhun the day;
While caitiff bitterns, undifmay'd,
Remark the fwain's familiar fhade,
And fcorn to quit their prey.
K 4
But fee, the radiant fun once more
The brightening face of heaven restore,
And raise the doubtful dawn;
And, more to gild his rural sphere,
At once the brightest train appear,
That ever trod the lawn.
Amazement chill'd the shepherd's frame,
To think* Bridgewater's honour'd name
Should grace his ruftic cell;
That the, on all whofe motions wait
Distinction, titles, rank, and state,
Should rove where fhepherds dwell.
But true it is, the generous mind,
By candour fway'd, by taste refin'd,
Will nought but vice difdain;
Nor will the breast where fancy glows
Deem every flower a weed, that blows
Amid the defart plain.
Befeems it fuch, with honour crown'd,
To deal its lucid beams around,
Nor equal meed receive :
At moft fuch garlands from the field,
As cowflips, pinks, and panfies yield,
And rural hands can weave.
Yet ftrive, ye fhepherds, ftrive to find,
And weave the fairest of the kind,
*The Duchefs, married to Sir R. Lyttelton.
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