My clustering grape compens'd their magic skill;

The bowl capacious swelled, in purple tide, To shepherds, liberal as the crystal rill Spontaneous gurgling from the mountain's side.

But, ah! these youthful sportive hours are fled; These scenes of jocund mirth are now no

more:

No healing slumbers 'tend my humble bed; No friends condole the sorrows of the poor.

And what avail the thoughts of former joy? What comfort bring they in the adverse hour?

Can they the canker-worm of Care destroy, Or brighten Fortune's discontented lour?

He who hath long traversed the fertile plain, Where Nature in its fairest vesture smiled, Will he not cheerless view the fairy scene, When lonely wandering o'er the barren wild?

For now pale Poverty, with haggard eye,

And rueful aspect, darts her gloomy ray; My wonted guests their proffered aid deny, And from the paths of Damon steal away.

Thus, when fair Summer's lustre gilds the

lawn,

When ripening blossoms deck the spreading tree,

The birds with melody salute the dawn,

And o'er the daisy hangs the humming bee:

But when the beauties of the circling year,

In chilling frosts and furious storms decay, No more the bees upon the plains appear; No more the warblers hail the infant day.

To the lone corner of some distant shore,
In dreary devious pilgrimage I'll fly,
And wander pensive, where Deceit no more
Shall trace my footsteps with a mortal eye:

There solitary saunter o'er the beach,

And to the murmuring surge my griefs dis

close;

There shall my voice in plaintive wailings

teach

The hollow caverns to resound

my woes.

Sweet are the waters to the parched tongue; Sweet are the blossoms to the wanton bee Sweet to the shepherd sounds the lark's shrill

song:

But sweeter far is SOLITUDE to me.

Adieu, ye fields, where I have fondly strayed! Ye swains, who once the favourite Damon

knew!

Farewel, ye sharers of my bounty's aid!
Ye sons of base INGRATITUDE, adieu!

TO THE MEMORY OF

JOHN CUNNINGHAM, POET.

Sing his praises that doth keep

Our flocks from harm;

Pan, the father of our sheep:

And, arm in arm,

Tread we softly in a round

.While the hollow neighbouring ground

Fills the music with her sound.

BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.

YE mournful meanders and

groves,

Delight of the Muse and her song!

Ye grottos and dripping alcoves,
No strangers to Corydon's tongue!

Let each Sylvan and Dryad declare His themes and his music how dear! Their plaints and their dirges prepare, Attendant on Corydon's bier.

The Echo that joined in the lay,
So amorous, sprightly, and free,
Shall send forth the sounds of dismay,
And sigh with sad pity for thee.

Wild wander his flocks with the breeze;
His reed can no longer control;
His numbers no longer can please,
Or send kind relief to the soul.

But long may they wander and bleat; To hills tell the tale of their woe; The woodlands the tale shall repeat, And the waters shall mournfully flow.

For these were the haunts of his love,
The sacred retreats of his ease,
Where favourite Fancy would rove,
As wanton, as light as the breeze.

Her zone will discoloured appear
With fanciful ringlets unbound;
A face pale and languid she'll wear;

A heart fraught with sorrow profound.

The reed of each shepherd will mourn;
The shades of Parnassus decay :
The Muses will dry their sad urn,
Since 'reft of young Corydon's lay.

To him every passion was known

That throbbed in the breast with desire; Each gentle affection was shewn

In the soft-sighing songs of his lyre.

Like the caroling thrush on the spray,
In music soft warbling and wild,
To love was devoted each lay,

In accents pathetic and mild.

Let Beauty and Virtue revere,

And the songs of the shepherd approve, Who felt, who lamented the snare, When repining at pitiless love.

The Summer but languidly gleams;
Pomona no comfort can bring;

Nor valleys, nor grottos, nor streams,
Nor the May-born flowerets of Spring.

They've fled all with Corydon's Muse,

For his brows to form chaplets of woe; Whose reed oft awakened their boughs,

As the whispering breezes that blow.