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THE

HE western sky was purpled o'er

With every pleasing ray, And flocks reviving felt no more

The sultry heat of day;

When from a hazel's artless bower

Soft warbled STREPHON's tongue; He bleft the scene, he blest the hour,

While NANCY's praise he sung.

Let fops with fickle falthood range

The paths of wanton love,
Whilst weeping maids lament their change,

And fadden every grove :

But endless blessings crown the day

I saw fair Esham's dale : And every blessing find its way

To Nancy of the vale,

Twas

'Twas from Avona's bank, the maid

Diffus'd her lovely beams;
And every shining glance display'd

The Naiad of the streams.

Soft as the wild duck's tender young,

That float on Avon's tide; Bright as the water lily sprung

And glittering near its fide.

Fresh as the bordering flowers, her bloom,
Her eye

all mild to view ;
The little halcyon’s azure plume

Was never half so blue.

Her shape was like the reed, so fleek,

So taper, strait, and fair ;
Her dimpled smile, her blushing cheek,

How charming sweet they were !

Far in the winding vale retir'd

This peerless bud I found,
And shadowing rocks and woods conspir'd
To fence her beauties round.

That

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That nature in so lone a dell

Should form a nymph fo sweet! Or fortune to her secret cell

Conduct my wand'ring feet !

Gay lordlings fought her for their bride,

But she would ne'er incline;
Prove to your equals true, she cry'd,

As I will prove to mine.

'Tis STREPHON on the mountain's brow

Has won my right good will; To him I gave my plighted vow,

With him I'll climb the hill.

Struck with her charms and gentle truth

I clasp’d the constant fair ; To her alone I give my youth,

And vow my future care.

And when this vow shall faithless prove,

Or I these charms forego,
The stream that saw our tender love,

That stream shall cease to flow.

SHENSTONE

O'ER moorlandsand mountainsrudebarren and bare,

,
As wilder'd and wearied I roam,
A gentle young shepherdess fees my despair,

And leads me o'er lawns to her home :
Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd,

Green rushes were strew'd on the floor ;
Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round,

And deck'd the fod feats at her door.

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We fat ourselves down to a cooling repaft,

Fresh fruits, and she cull'd me the best,
Whilst thrown off my guard by some glances she cast,

Love sily stole into my breast.
I told my soft withes, she sweetly replied

(Ye virgins, her voice was divine)
I've rich ones rejected and great ones denied,

Yet take me, fond shepherd, I'm thine.

Her air was so modeft, her aspect so meek,

So fimple, yet sweet were her charms,

I kiss'd

I kiss’d the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,

And lock'd the lov'd maid in my arms. Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,

And if on the banks, by the stream, Reclin’d on her bosom I fink into sleep,

Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the flow rifing hills,

Delighted with pastoral views,
Or reit on the rock whence the streamlet distills,

And mark out new themes for my Muse.
To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,

The damsel's of humble descent;
The cottager Peace is well known for her fire.

And shepherds have named her-Content.

CUNNINGHAM.

A Pastoral BALLAD, in Four Parts.

I. ABSENCE.

Y

E shepherds fo chearful and gay,

Whose flocks never carelessly roam ;
Should Cory Don's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.

Allow

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