The PARTING. By the Same. Written fome Years after Marriage. THE I. HE rifing fun through all the grove My Lucy fmil'd, and talk'd of love, But oh the fatal hour was come That forc'd me from my dear: My Lucy then through grief was dumb, III. Now far from her and bliss I roam, All nature wears a change: The azure sky seems wrapt in gloom, And every place looks ftrange. IV. Those IV. Thofe flow'ry fields, this verdant scene, With fad contraft increase my spleen My books that wont to footh my mind There only thofe amufement find That have a mind at ease. Memory! celeftial maid! Who glean'ft the flow'rets cropt by time; And, fuffering not a leaf to fade, Preferv't the bloffoms of our prime ; Bring, bring those moments to my mind II. And bring that garland to my fight, With which my favour'd crook the bound; And bring that wreath of roses bright Which then my festive temples crown'd. The gentle things fhe deign'd to say. And sketch with care the Mufe's bow'r, Where Ifis rolls her filver tide; Nor yet omit one reed or flow'r, That fhines on Cherwell's verdant fide; If so thou may'st those hours prolong, When polish'd Lycon join'd my fong. IV. The fong it 'vails not to recite But fure, to footh our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appear'd more bright Than other banks, than other streams: Or by thy foftening pencil fhewn, Affume they beauties not their own? V. And paint that fweetly vacant icene, I breath'd in verse one cordial vow; Dull to the fenfe of new delight, On thee the drooping Muse attends As fome fond lover, robb'd of fight, On thy expreffive pow'r depends; Nor would exchange thy glowing lines, To live the lord of all that shines. VII. But let me chase those vows away, Which at ambition's fhrine I made; Nor ever let thy skill display Those anxious moments, ill repaid: Oh! from my breast that season rase, And bring my childhood in its place. VIII. Bring me the bells, the rattle bring, And bring the hobby I bestrode; When When pleas'd, in many a sportive ring, And bring the whistle that I blew. IX. Then will I mufe, and penfive fay, While innocence allow'd to waste? The Princess ELIZABETH: A Ballad, alluding to a Story recorded of her, when she was a Prisoner at Woodstock, 1554. By the Same. WILL you hear how once repining Great Eliza captive lay, Each ambitious thought refigning, VOL. IV. A a While |