I will lead her to a soil

Where perpetual Summers smile,
Without Autumn, which bereaves
Fairest cedars of their leaves;

Where she shall behold the meads
Ever green, the groves with shades;
Lasting flow'rs the banks shall wear,
And birds shall warble all the year.
Where the rustic swain does owe
Nothing to the spade and plough;
For their harvest, Nature's care,
Without toil relieves them there,
And no differing seasons bring
Changes to the constant Spring.
In the morn she shall awake
With the noise the shepherds make,
Chearing, with the echoing sounds
Of their horns, the eager hounds.
Nymphs, as well as shepherds too,
In these groves the chace pursue;
While at their backs their flowing hair
Loosely wantons in the air;

Gilded quivers on their thighs,
With darts less fatal than their eyes.
Each the other's sloth does blame,
While they seek the hart for game;
Who, poor fool, his feet employs,
And through woods and dales he flies,
Over plains and rivers bounds,

And out-flies the winds and hounds.

When perhaps some nymph, whose eyes Makes both men and beasts her prize, Swifter than Camilla's pace

Soon o'er-takes the winged race,

And with one bright glance she wounds,
And his fancy'd hope confounds;
Who, reflecting his faint eyes
On her face, with pleasure dies.

When the sports are done, they rest Underneath some shade, and feast On sweet beds of violets, crown'd With sweet roses, on the ground. Where they garlands weave and posies Of green myrtle, pinks, and roses; For which grace the ravish'd swains Pay soft kisses for their pains. Thus they dally till the light Falls behind the scene of night.

ODE XXV.

THE BIRD OF PASSAGE.

MDCCXLIX.

BY DR. JOHN HOADLY.

GROWN sick of crowds and noise,

To peaceful rural joys

Good Belmont from the town retires;
Miss Harriet seeks the shade,
And looks the country maid,
And artfully his taste admires.

Their sympathizing themes

Of lawns, and shades, and streams, Were all they sung, and all they said. The music sweet he finds

Of well according minds,

And loves the perfect rural maid.

His honest pure desires,

Not fed by vicious fires,

Suggest to speak his flame betimes;
But, scarce his passion known,
This Passage-Bird is flown

To warmer air, and brighter climes.

From shades to crowded rooms,
From flow'rs to dead perfumes-
The season calls-she must away.
'Tis then alone she lives,
When she, in riot, gives
To routs the night, to sleep the day.

He follows her enrag'd,
And finds her deep engag'd

At crafty Crib and brazen Brag;
He hears her betting high,

He sees her slur the die

He takes his boots, and mounts his nag.

ODE XXVI.

THE BULLFINCH IN TOWN.

BY LADY LUXBOROUGH.

HARK to the blackbird's pleasing note, Sweet usher of the vocal throng! Nature directs his warbling throat, And all that hear admire the song.

Yon bullfinch, with unvary'd tone,
Of cadence harsh, and accent shrill,

Has brighter plumage to atone
For want of harmony and skill.

Yet, discontent with nature's boon,
Like man, to mimic art he flies :
On opera-pinions hoping soon

Unrivall'd he shall mount the skies.

And while, to please some courtly fair,
He one dull tune with labour learns,
A well-gilt cage, remote from air,
And faded plumes, is all he earns !