She is faithlefs, and I am undone;
Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Let reafon inftruct you to fhun
What it cannot instruct you to cure.
Beware how ye loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of an higher degree: It is not for me to explain
How fair, and how fickle they be.
Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end to my woes?
When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repofe.
Yet time may diminish the pain:
The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me.
The sweets of a dew-fprinkled rofe,
The found of a murmuring stream,
The peace which from folitude flows,
Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High tranfports are shown to the fight, But we are not to find them our own; Fate never beftow'd fuch delight,
As I with my Phyllis had known.
ye woods, fpread your branches apace! To your deepest receffes I fly;
I would hide with the beafts of the chafe;
I would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed shall refound through the grove
With the fame, fad complaint it begun;
How the fmil'd, and I could not but love!
Was faithlefs, and I am undone!
TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ
COME, Thepherds, we'll follow the hearfe,
We'll fee our lov'd Corydon lay'd,
Though forrow may blemish the verse,
Yet let a fad tribute be paid,
They call'd him the pride of the plain;
In footh he was gentle and kind!
He mark'd on his elegant frain
The graces that glow'd in his mind.
On purpose he planted yon trees,
That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,
But never wou'd rifle their cell.
Ye lambkins that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat---and your master bemoan;
His inufic was artless and fweet,
His manners as mild as your own.
No verdure fhall cover the vale,
No bloom on the bloffoms appear;
The sweets of the forest shall fail,
And winter difcolour the year.
No birds in our hedges fhall fing
(Our hedges fo vocal before),
Since he that should welcome the spring,
Can greet the gay season no more.
His Phyllis was fond of his praise,
And poets came round in a throng;
They liften'd,-----they envy'd his lays,
But which of them equall'd his fong?
Ye fhepherds, henceforward be mute,
For loft is the pastoral strain;
So give me my Corydon's flute,
And thus-----let me break it in twain
FROM YOUNG'S NIGHT THOUGHTS.
AMAZING period! when each mountain height
Out-burns Vefuvius; rocks eternal pour
Their melted mafs, as rivers once they pour'd;
Stars rufh; and final ruin fiercely drives
Her ploughfhare o'er creation;---while aloft,
More than aftonishment! if more can be!
Far other firmament than e'er was feen,
Than e'er was thought by man! far other stars!
Stars animate, that govern thefe of fire;
Far other fun!---A fun, O how unlike
The Babe at Bethle'm! how unlike the man
That groan'd on Calvary!---yet He it is;
That man of forrows! O how chang'd! what pomp
In grandeur terrible, all heav'n defcends!
And gods, ambitious, triumph in his train.
A fwift archangel, with his golden wing,
As bolts and clouds, that darken and difgrace
The scene divine, sweeps stars and funs afide.
And now,
all drofs remov'd, heav'n's own pure day,
Full on the confines of our ether, flames.
Lorenzo! welcome to this fcene; the last
In nature's courfe; the first in wisdom's thought.
This strikes, if aught can strike thee! this awakes
The most fupine; this fnatches man from death.
Roufe, rouse, Lorenzo, then! and follow me,
Where truth, the moft momentous man can hear,
Loud calls my foul, and ardour wings her flight.
I find my inspiration in my theme:
The grandeur of my fubject is my mufe.
At midnight, when mankind is wrapt in peace,
And worldly fancy feeds on golden dreams,
To give more dread to man's most dreadful hour,
At midnight, 'tis prefum'd, this pomp must búrst
From tenfold darknefs; fudden, as the spark
From fmitten fteel; from nitrous grain the blaze.
Man, ftarting from his couch, fhall fleep no more!
The day is broke, which never more shall close !
Above, around, beneath, amazement all!
Terror and glory join'd in their extremes!
Our God in grandeur, and our world on fire!
All nature ftruggling in the pangs of death!
Doft thou not hear her? doft thou not deplore
Her ftrong convulfions, and her final groan?
Where, where, for fhelter fhall the guilty fly,
When confternation turns the good man pale?
Great day! for which all other days were made;
For which earth rofe from chaos; man from earth;
And an eternity, the date of gods,
Defcended on poor earth-created man!
Great day of dread, decifion, and despair!
At thought of thee, each fublunary with
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