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An ODE to the late Duchess of Somerset.
By WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Esg;
And dew-drops catch the lucid ray;
Will aught the Muse inspire ?
That drowns the sacred lyre !
Some panting, timorous hare pursue ;
Say, does she smoothe her lawns for you?
The wretched fwain your sport survey ;
He finds his labour'd crops a prey ;
Haply beneath your ravage bleed,
That Nature smiles for you alone;
The proud, the selfish boast disown:
Nor ever the defencejess train
But tho' the various harvest gild your plains,
Does the mere landschape feast your eye?
Is not the red-ftreak's future juice
The source of your delight profound,
Purpling a whole horizon round?
But tho', the pebbled fhores among,
It mimick no unpleasing song,
Unmov'd the mountain's airy pile,
O let a rural conscious Muse,
Forth to the solemn oak you bring the square,
If haply from your haunts ye stray
Nor our untutor'd sense disdain :
To relish her fupreme delight;
Or humble hare-bell paints the plain,
Or purple heath is ting'd in vain :
The mountain swells, the dale subsides;
The sordid wretch secures his claim,
Should alienate the fields that wear his name!
Should litigate a span of earth!
Alas! her unrevers'd decree,
More comprehensive and more free,