English

In those bright seenes, where Mercy dwells above,
Warm'd with the lustre of Redeeming Love!
There may the soul, refin'd, of S UTTON dwell,
Who practis'd here its sacred laws so well! —
To Heaven supreme, we yield the friend we prize,
Tho' planted in the grave, sweet Hope shall rise,
And hear its fruit immortal in the skies.

Whilst Sense and Genius mourn a patron fled,
And Friendship weeps him with the silent dead!
Whilst deeper anguish, with its keenest dart,
Has pierc'd, alas! the virtuous widow's heart! —
Let conscious Truth proclaim, with ardour due,
How nobly Pembroke from the world withdrew!
With gentle kindness, dignified, serene!
He cheer'd the mourners at his closing scene,
And from his lips such precious accents flow'd,
As Love shall treasure to its last abode!
Ah! comfort there, with soothing charm shall dwell,

WRITTEN AT MINSTED IN THE NEW FOREST AUGUST 24, 1767.

O rising Sun! on this auspicious day
With brighter beams gild every hill and grove;
Ye feather'd songsters, breathe a sweeter lay!
And fill the echoing woods with joy and love.

And, honor'd M INSTED , in thy green retreats
Let every tree a prouder foliage wear!
Let every floweret scatter livelier sweets,
And vernal perfumes scent the autumnal year!

ADDRESSED TO A PINE-TREE .

WRITTEN MAY , 1766.

The ruffian North has spent his savage power,
Collects his winds, and quits the mountain's side;
And A USTER mild, with many a genial shower,
Renews the laughing meadow's grassy pride.

The active swallow wings her rapid flight
In sportive circies through the ether bland,
And in luxuriant foliage proudly dight

To love I yield, — nor longer I
Th' unequal war with Cupid try;
For when I once, with stubborn heart,
Secure of love, despis'd his dart,
The God, resolv'd to quell my pride,
His quiver fasten'd to his side,
And bent his bow, or bade me yield,
Or try the fortune of the field.
Arm'd as Achilles was of yore
A corslet on my breast I bore,
Prepar'd with shield and spear in hand,
Or to attack him, or withstand:
Accouter'd thus, the field I sought,
And, to the god oppos'd, I fought;
Cupid his darts began to ply,

Forever be His Name ador'd—
His sacred Name, who sheath'd the sword!
And bids the Olive branch divine,
Around the sheaves of Plenty twine!
Whilst Virtue, Peace, and fair Renown,
Adorn our gracious Monarch's crown!
No more the laurel wreath appears,
Bath'd in a nation's flowing tears;
But gentle Hope, with soothing pow'r,
Anticipates the future hour,

When he, the vet'ran Soldier true,
Who ne'er the fears of danger knew,
Or quak'd to hear the cannon roar,
Shall (landed on his native shore)

I saw thee blush, — a liquid light
Sprang in thine eye of blue;
It glow'd as pure — as heav'nly bright,
As morn's translucent dew.

I heard the gentle heaving sigh
Thy heart's own grief bespeak;
The tear beheld, that left thine eye —
To glitter on thy cheek.

I saw thee grieve — I saw thee weep —
Again I heard thee sigh; —
'T was pity's tear that gemm'd thy cheek, —
'T was virtue dew'd thine eye!

Let lovers sigh for night,
In their young fancy sweetest,
When pale Luna's gentle light
The eye greetest.

Let them lovingly stray
The calm cool groves among,
When every sound has died away,
And night is young.

I love the tranquil hour
Just as the broad sun sets,
When Zephyr with dew from his bow'r
The king-cup wets.

'T is then the purer heart
Feels joy it cannot smother,
When day and night seem loth to part,
And kiss each other.

And I have drank of bliss

It happen'd that Cupid one day,
The urchin is heedless and young,
By a bee, while a-sleeping it lay
Unseen on a rose-bud was stung.

Then quick to Cythera ran he,
Exclaiming, Mamma, I'm undone;
And a serpent, that men call a bee,
By his sting proves the death of your son,

Quoth Venus, Thou well may'st complain
Of the wound of the sting of a bee,
But think how much greater their pain,
Who are pierc'd through with arrows by thee.

The Sable sadde bewrapped hath my lymmes,
(A sute most fyt for one repleat with griefe.)
Whose strayned hart in sowrce of sorrowe swymmes,
Where wrackfull woes at no tyme finde reliefe.
Whose foode is feare, whose drinke is dolor deepe,
Whose sawce is sighes, whose tast sharpe passions are:
Whose rest is ruthe, where sorrowes neuer sleepe,
Whose comfort clipsed is with clowds of care.
Whose helpe is frozen, whose hap hath hard euente,
Whose hope is queld with clogge of colde dispayre: