SONG XLVI.

BY NAT LE E*.

AIL to the myrtle shade,

HA

All hail to the nymphs of the fields,

Kings would not here invade,

Those pleasures that virtue yields; Beauty here opens her arms,

To foften the languishing mind; And Phillis unlocks her charms: Ah Phillis! ah, why fo kind?

Phillis, thou foul of love,

Thou joy of the neighbouring fwains: Phillis, that crowns the grove,

And Phillis that gilds the plains. Phillis, that ne'er had the fkill

To paint, and to patch, and be fine; Yet Phillis, whofe eyes can kill,

Whom nature has made divine.

Phillis, whofe charming fong

Makes labour and pains a delight; Phillis that makes the day young,

And fhortens the live-long night:

Phillis, whofe lips, like May,

Still laugh at the fweets that they bring ;
Where love never knows decay,
But fets with eternal spring.

In the tragedy of Theodofius.

SONG

COM

SONG XLVII.

OOME, dear Amanda, quit the town,
And to the rural hamlets fly;
Behold, the wintry ftorms are gone,

A gentle radiance glads the sky.
The birds awake, the flowers appear,
Earth spreads a verdant couch for thee;
'Tis joy and music all we hear!

'Tis love and beauty all we fee!

Come, let us mark the gradual spring,
How peep the buds, the bloffom blows,
Till Philomel begins to fing,

And perfect May to fpread the rose.
Let us fecure the short delight,

And wifely crop the blooming day;
For foon, too foon, it will be night :-
Arife, my love, and come away.

SONG XLVIII.

FROM THE LAPLAND TONGUE.

BY SIR RICHARD STEEL. ?

ASTE, my rein-deer, and let us nimbly go

HA

Our amorous journey through this dreary waste; Hafte, my rein-deer! ftill, ftill thou art too flow, Impetuous love demands the lightnings hafte.

Around

Around us far the rufhy moors are spread:
Soon will the fun withdraw his chearful ray:
Darkling and tir'd we shall the marshes tread;
No lay unfung to cheat the tedious way.

The watery length of thefe unjoyous moors
Does all the flowery meadows pride excell;
Through thefe I fly to her my foul adores;

Ye flowery meadows, empty pride, farewell.

Each moment from the charmer I'm confin'd,
My breaft is tortur'd with impatient fires;
Fly, my rein-deer, fly fwifter than the wind,
Thy tardy feet wing with my fierce defires.

Our pleafing toil will then be foon o'erpaid,
And thou, in wonder loft, fhall view my fair,
Admire each feature of the lovely maid,

Her artless charms, her bloom, her fpritely air.

But lo! with graceful motion where she swims,
Gently removing each ambitious wave;
The crouding waves tranfported clasp her limbs :
When, when, oh when fhall I fuch freedoms have!

In vain, ye envious ftreams, fo faft ye flow,
To hide her from a lovers ardent gaze:
From every touch you more tranfparent grow,
And all reveal'd the beauteous wanton plays.

4

SONG

XLIX.

ARNOS

VALE.

BY THE EARL OF MIDDLESEX*.

W

HEN here Lucinda first we came,

Where Arno rolls his filver ftream,
How blithe the nymphs, the fwains how gay,
Content infpir'd each rural lay.

The birds in livelier concert fung,
The grapes in thicker clusters hung;
All look'd as joy could never fail
Among the fweets of Arnos vale.

But fince the good Palemon died,
The chief of fhepherds, and their pride,
Now Arnos fons must all give place
To northern men, an iron race.
The taste of pleasure now is o'er,
Thy notes, Lucinda, please no more;
The mufes droop, the Goths prevail;
Adieu the fweets of Arnos vale!

* Charles Sackville, afterwards duke of Dorfet. It was written at Florence in 1737, on the death of John Gafton the laft duke of Tuscany, of the house of Medici; and addreffed to fignora Muscovita a finger, a favou rite of the authors.

VOL. I.

SONG

SONG L.

BY MR. EDWARD MOORE.

COLLIN.

E ftill, o ye winds, and attentive, ye fwains,

BE

'Tis Phebe invites, and replies to my strains; The fun never rose on, search all the world through, A fhepherd fo bleft, or a fair one so true.

PHEBE.

Glide softly, ye ftreams, o ye nymphs, round me throng,

"Tis Collin commands, and attends to my fong;

Search all the world over, you never can find
A maiden fo bleft, or a fhepherd fo kind.

Вот н.

'Tis love, like the fun, that gives light to the year,
The sweetest of bleffings that life can endear;
Our pleasures it brightens, drives forrow away,
Gives joy to the night, and enlivens the day.

COLLIN.

With Phebe befide me, the seasons how gay !
The winters bleak months feem as pleasant as May ;
The fummers gay verdure fprings ftill as the treads,
And linnets and nightingales fing through the meads.

she

PHEBE.