For years, the fole joy of her heart, Thence faithful he sung by her fide; And at her when cold death flung his dart, Ye pretty sweet warblers, adieu! No more your glad notes fhall I hear; ELEGY Bleis'd be the Hand which then, with timely Power, Ashford Pina Efdall sadp. COLES HILL. ADDRESSED TO THOMAS SPRING, ESQ. WRITTEN AT THE SWAN INN THERE, ON SEEING A POEM OF HIS IN THE NEWS-PAPER. WHEN, lonely, on far distant climates cast, Sees fome known relick from his native foil; Fix'd, bless'd event! in penfive joy he stands, But, should, perchance, the fweet memorial bear So, even now, my penfive bosom glows, As o'er thy sterling lines I cast my eye; My pains, fufpended, fink into repofe, And, lo! once more, my flender reed I try. Though small my skill to touch the various lyre, Beneath thy facred laurel's friendly shade Well know'ft thou, COLESHILL, feat of calm delight, A fwelling mount, with bowery dwellings crown'd; How fair in prospect breaks it on the fight! The muse, still grateful, loves the sylvan scene; The nymphs all beauteous, fenfible, and good. Bleak was the night, and fore my mind opprefs'd, My frozen blood scarce crept in my torn breast, |