And when we return to our cottage at night,

Hand in hand as we fauntering ftray,

Let the moons filver beams through the leaves give us light, Juft direct us, and chequer our way.

Let the nightingale warble its notes in our walk,
As thus gently and flowly we move;

And let no fingle thought be express'd in our talk,
But of friendship improv'd into love.

Thus enchanted each day with these rural delights,
And fecure from ambitions alarms;

Soft love and repose shall divide all our nights,
And each morning shall rife with new charms.

W

HEN the trees are all bare, not a leaf to be seen, And the meadows their beauty have loft; When nature's difrob'd of her mantle of green, And the ftreams are faft bound with the froft:

While the peasant inactive stands shivering with cold,
As bleak the winds northerly blow;

And the innocent flocks run for eafe to the fold,

With their fleeces befprinkled with fnow:

In the yard when the cattle are fodder'd with ftraw,
And they fend forth their breath like a steam;
And the neat-looking dairy-maid fees fhe muft thaw
Flakes of ice that he finds in the cream:

When the sweet country maiden, as fresh as a rose,
As fhe carelessly trips often flides;

And the ruftics laugh loud, if by falling fhe shows
All the charms that her modefty hides:

When the lads and the laffes for company join'd,
In a croud round the embers are met,

Talk of fairies, and witches that ride on the wind,
And of ghofts, till they're all in a sweat:

Heaven grant in this season it may be my lot,
With the nymph whom I love and admire,
While the ificles hang from the eaves of my cot,
I may thither in fafety retire!

"Where in neatnefs and quiet, and free from furprise, We may live, and no hardships endure;

Nor feel any turbulent paffions arise,

But fuch as each other may cure.

SONG

SONG LV.

CONTENT.

Ο

A PASTORAL.

BY MR. JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

'ER moor lands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare, As wilder'd and weary'd I roam,

A gentle young fhepherdess fees my despair,

And leads me-o'er lawns-to her home:

Yellow fheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd,
Green rushes were ftrew'd on the floor,

Her cafement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round,
And deck'd the fod feats at her door.

We fate ourselves down to a cooling repaft;
Fresh fruits! and fhe cull'd me the beft:

While thrown from my guard by fome glances fhe caft,
Love flily stole into my breast!

I told my foft wishes; she sweetly replied,
(Ye virgins her voice was divine!)
I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied,
But take me, fond fhepherd-I'm thine.

Her air was fo modeft, her aspect so meek!
So fimple yet fweet were her charms!
I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,
And lock'd the dear maid in my arms.

Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,
And if, by yon prattler, the ftream,
Reclin❜d on her bosom I fink into sleep,

Her image ftill softens my dream.

Together

Together we range o'er the flow rifing hills,
Delighted with paftoral views,

Or reft on the rock whence the streamlet distils,

And point out new themes for mufe.

my

To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,

The damfel's of humble descent;

The cottager Peace is well known for her fire,
And fhepherds have nam'd her Content.

SONG LVI.

PHILLIDA AND CORYDO N. ✔

BY NICHOLAS BRETON*.

IN the merry month of May,

In a morn by break of day,

Forth I walk'd by the wood fide
When as May was in his pride,
There I fpied, all alone,
Phillida and Corydon.

Much ado there was, god wot!
He would love, and fhe would not:

She faid, never man was true:
He faid, none was falfe to you.

* A writer of the 16th century, of whom nothing more is known, than that he composed a variety of poems on all fubjects, most of which are now totally forgotten.

He

He faid, he had lov'd her long:

She faid, love should have no wrong.

Corydon would kifs her then,

She faid, maids muft kifs no men,
Till they did for good and all.
Then fhe made the fhepherd call
All the heavens to witness truth:
Never lov'd a truer youth.

Thus, with many a pretty oath,
Yea and nay, and faith and troth!
Such as filly fhepherds use

When they will not love abuse;
Love, which had been long deluded,
Was with kiffes fweet concluded:
And Phillida, with garlands gay,
Was made the lady of the May.

SONG LVII.

BY THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.

A

LL my paft life is mine no more,

The flying hours are gone,

Like tranfitory dreams giv'n o'er,

Whofe images are kept in store,

By memory

alone.

Whatever