THE POPLAR FIELD. THE poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade, And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade: The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse in his bosom their image receives. Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. The blackbird has fled to another retreat, Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; And the scene where his melody charm'd me before, Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. My fugitive years are all hasting away, With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, The change both my heart and my fancy employs; I reflect on the frailty of man, and his joys: Shortlived as we are, yet our pleasures we see Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. THE SHRUBBERY. WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. O HAPPY shades-to me unbless'd! This glassy stream, that spreading pine, But fix'd unalterable Care Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where, And slights the season and the scene. For all that pleased in wood or lawn, Has lost its beauties and its powers. The saint or moralist should tread This moss-grown alley musing slow : They seek like me the secret shade, But not like me to nourish woe! Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste These tell me of enjoyments past, Ꭰ HUMAN FRAILTY. WEAK and irresolute is man; The bow well bent, and smart the spring- But Passion rudely snaps the string, Some foe to his upright intent Virtue engages his assent, But Pleasure wins his heart. "Tis here the folly of the wise Bound on a voyage of awful length, A stranger to superior strength, But oars alone can ne'er prevail, The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, A COMPARISON. THE lapse of time and rivers is the same: And a wide ocean swallows both at last. A difference strikes at length the musing heart: ANOTHER. ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng; With gentle yet prevailing force, ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED, SEPT. 1782. To the March in Scipio. TOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more! Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; |