What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give? E'en the delightful fenfe of well-earn'd praise, Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifelefs thoughts could raife.

For my diftracted mind

What fuccour can I find?

On whom for confolation shall I call?

Support me, ev'ry friend;

Your kind affistance lend,

To bear the weight of this oppressive woe.
Alas! each friend of mine,

My dear departed love, fo much was thine,
That none has any comfort to bestow.

My books, the best relief

In ev'ry other grief,

Are now with your idea fadden'd all :

Each fav'rite author we together read

My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead.

We were the happiest pair of human kind:
The rolling year its various course perform'd,
And back return'd again;

Another, and another, finiling came,

And faw our happiness unchang'd remain.

Still in her golden chain

Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind:

Our studies, pleasures, tafte the fame,

I

O fatal, fatal stroke!

That all this pleasing fabric Love had rais'd

Of rare felicity,

On which e'en wanton Vice with envy gaz'd, And ev'ry scheme of bliss our hearts had form'd, With foothing hope for many a future day,

In one fad moment broke!

Yet, O my foul! thy rising murmurs stay; Nor dare th' all-wife Difpofer to arraign,

Or 'gainst his fupreme decree

With impious grief complain.

That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, Was his most righteous will-and be that will obey'd.

Would thy fond love his grace to her controul; And, in these low abodes of sin and pain,

Her pure exalted foul,

Unjustly, for thy partial good, detain?
No-rather strive thy grov'ling mind to raise
Up to that unclouded blaze,

That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
In which enthron'd she now with pity fees,
How frail, how infecure, how flight,

Is ev'ry mortal bliss;

E'en Love itself, if rifing by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state,
Whose fleeting joys fo foon must end,
Does not to its fovereign good ascend.

Rife then my foul with hope elate,

And feek thofe regions of ferene delight,

Whofe peaceful path, and ever-open gate,
No feet but thofe of harden'd guilt shall mifs,
There Death himself thy Lucy shall restore;

There yield up all his power e'er to divide you more.

IN FOUR PART S.

I. ABSENCE.

YE shepherds fo chearful and gay,

Whofe flocks never carclefsly roam; Should Corydon's happen to ftray,

Ah! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to mufe and to figh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find; None, once, was fo watchful as I:

-I have left my dear Phyllis behind.

Now I know what it is to have ftrove

With the torment of doubt and defire; What it is, to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each ev'ning repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn:

I have bade my dear Phyllis farewel.

SHENSTONE.

Since

Since Phillis vouchfaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine;

May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.

I priz'd every hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleas'd me before,
But now they are pafs'd, and I figh,
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.

But why do I languish in vain?

Why wander thus penfively here?
O, why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the fmiles of my dear?

They tell me, my favourite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown! Alas! where with her I have stray'd,

I could wander with pleasure, alone.

When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not be fo-
'Twas with pain that she faw me depart.

She gaz'd, as I flowly withdrew;

My path I could hardly discern;

So fweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return.

K