What profits me, that I in charms have skill,
And ghosts, and goblins, order as I will,
Yet have, with all my charms, no power to lay
The sprite that breaks my quiet night and day?
HOBBINO L.
O, that, like Colin, I had skill in rhymes,
To purchase credit with fucceeding times!
Sweet Colin Clout! who never, yet, had peer;
Who fung through all the seasons of the year.
LANQUE T.
Let me, like Merlin, fing: his voice had power
To free the 'clipfing moon at midnight hour:
And, as he sung, the Fairies with their queen,
In mantles blue, came tripping o'er the green.
Laft eve of May did I not hear them fing, And fee their dance? And I can fhew the ring,
Where, hand in hand, they shift their feet so light:
The grass springs greener from their tread by night. 120
LANQUET.
But haft thou seen their king, in rich array,
Fam'd Oberon, with damask'd robe so gay,
And gemmy crown, by moonshine sparkling far,
And azure fceptre, pointed with a star?
GERON.
Here end your pleasing strife. Both victors are;
And both with Colin may, in rhyme, compare.
A boxen hautboy, loud, and fweet of found,
All varnish'd, and with brazen ringlets bound,
To each I give. A mizzling mift defcends
Adown that steepy rock: and this way tends
Yon diftant rain. Shoreward the veffels ftrive;
And, fee, the boys their flocks to shelter drive.
THE STRAY NY M P H.
CEASE your mufic, gentle swains:
Saw ye Delia crofs the plains?
Every thicket, every grove,
Have I rang'd, to find my love:
A kid, a lamb, my flock, I give,
Tell me only, doth she live?
White her skin as mountain-snow;
In her cheek the roses blow;
And her eye is brighter far
Than the beamy morning ftar.
When her ruddy lip ye view,
'Tis a berry moist with dew:
And her breath, oh, 'tis a gale
Paffing o'er a fragrant vale,
Paffing, when a friendly thower
Freshens every herb and flower.
Wide her bofom opens, gay
As the primrose-dell in May,
Sweet as violet-borders growing
Over fountains ever-flowing.
Like the tendrils of the vine,
Do her auburn treffes twine,
THE HAPPY SWAIN.
HAVE ye feen the morning sky,
When the dawn prevails on high,
When, anon, fome purply ray
Gives a fample of the day,
When, anon, the lark, on wing,
Strives to foar, and strains to fing?
Have ye feen th' ethereal blue
Gently fhedding filvery dew,
Spangling o'er the filent green,
While the nightingale, unseen,
To the moon and stars, full bright,
Lonesome chants the hymn of night?
Have ye seen the broider'd May
All her fcented bloom display,
Breezes opening, every hour,
This, and that, expecting flower,
While the mingling birds prolong,
From each bush, the vernal fong?
Have ye seen the damask-rose
Her unfully'd blush disclose,
Or the lily's dewy bell,
In her gloffy white, excell,
Or a garden vary'd o'er
With a thousand glories more?
By the beauties these display,
Morning, evening, night, or day,
By the pleasures these excite,
Endless fources of delight!
Judge, by them, the joys I find,
Since my Rofalind was kind,
Since she did herself refign
DESIRED ME TO WRITE ON THE DEATH OF KING WILLIAM.
RUST me, dear George, could I in verse but show
What forrow I, what forrow all men, owe
To Naffau's fate, or could I hope to raise
A fong proportion'd to the monarch's praise,
Could I his merits, or my grief, exprefs,
And proper thoughts in proper language dress,
Unbidden should my pious numbers flow,
The tribute of a heart o'ercharg'd with woe;
But, rather than prophane his facred hearse
With languid praises, and unhallow'd verfe,
My fighs I to myself in filence keep,
And inwardly, with fecret anguish, weep.
Let Halifax's Muse (he knew him well)
His virtues to fucceeding ages tell.
Let him, who fung the warrior on the Boyne,
(Provoking Dorset in the task to join)
And fhew'd the hero more than man before,
Let him th' illuftrious mortal's fate deplore;
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