Of herbs, and other country meffes, Which the neat handed Phillis dreffes; And then, in hafte, her bow'r fhe leaves, With Theftylis to bind the fheaves; Or, if the earlier feafon lead, To the tann'd haycock in the mead. Sometimes, with fecure delight, The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecs found
To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the chequer'd fhade; And young and old come forth to play On a fun-fhine holy-day,
Till the live-long day-light fail; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With ftories told of many a feat, How fairy Mab the junkets eat, She was pincht and pull'd, the faid, And he by fryar's lanthorn led; Tells how the drudging goblin swet To earn his cream-bowl duly fet, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His fhadowy flale had thrash'd the corn That ten day-lab'rers could not end; Then lies him down the lubbard fiend, And ftretch'd out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy ftrength,
And, crop-full, out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings.
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whifp'ring winds foon lull'd afleep. Towered cities please us then,
And the bufy hum of men,
Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, With ftore of ladies, whofe bright eyes, Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit, or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear
In faffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feaft, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry, Such fights as youthful poets dream On fummer eves, by haunted ftream. Then to the well-trod flage anon, If Johnfon's learned fock be on, Or fweetest Shakespear, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever, against eating cares,
Lap me in foft Lydian airs,
Married to immortal verfe,
Such as the meeting foul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked fweetnefs, long drawn out, With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tye
The hidden foul of harmony;
That Orpheus felf may heave his head From golden flumber on a bed
Of heapt Elyfian flow'rs, and hear Such ftrains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to haye quite fet free His half regain'd Eurydice.
Thefe delights if thou can't give,
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
Written in a Country Church Yard.
This is a very fine poem, but overloaded with epithet. The heroic measure with alternate rhime is very properly adapted to the folemnity of the fubject, as it is the flowest movement that our language admits of. The latter part of the poem is pa thetic and interefting.
HE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds flowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight, And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, And droufy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The moping owl does to the Moon complain Of fuch, as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Moleft her ancient, folitary reign. Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-trees fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet fleep.
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