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Would thy fond love his grace to her controul,
And in these low abodes of sin and pain
In which enthron'd she now with pity sees
Is every mortal bliss ;
Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,
It does not to its sov'reign good ascend.
There Death himself thy Lucy shall restore,
To the Duchess of Somerset.
While orient skies restore the day,
And dew-drops catch the lucid ray;
Will aught the muse inspire !
That drowns the sacred lyre!
Ye rural thanes, that o'er the mossy down,
Some panting, timorous hare pursue ; Does nature mean your joys alone to crown?
Say, does she smooth her lawns for you? For you
does echo bid the rocks reply, And urg'd by rude constraint resound the jovial cry?
See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn
The wretched swain your sport survey ; He finds his faithful fences torn,
He finds his labour'd crops a prey ;
He sees his flock—no more in circles feed;
Haply beneath your ravage bleed,
Nor yet, ye swains, conclude
That nature smiles for you alone ; Your bounded souls, and your conceptions crude, The proud, the selfish boast disown :
Yours be the produce of the soil :
O may it still reward your toil!
But tho' the various harvest gild your plains,
Does the mere landscape feast your eye? Or the warm hope of distant gains
Far other cause of glee supply? Is not the red-streak's future juice
The source of your delight profound,
Purpling a whole horizon round?
But tho', the pebbled shores among,
It mimic no unpleasing song,
Unpleas'd ye see the thickets bloom,
Unmov'd the mountains airy pile,
The dappled mead without a smile.
Forth to the solemn oak you bring the square,
you cry, 'tis fair.
Nor yet ye learn’d, nor yet ye courtly train,
If haply from your haunts ye stray
Nor our untutor'd sense disdain:
To relish her supreme delight;
She, where she pleases kind or coy,
Then hither bring the fair ingenuous mind,
By her auspicious aid refin'd;
Or humble hare-bell paints the plain,
Or purple heath is ting'd in vain :
For such the rivers dash the foaming tides,
Ev'n thriftless furze detains their wandering sight, And the rough barren rock grows pregnant with delight.
With what suspicious fearful care
The sordid wretch secures his claim, If haply some luxurious heir
Should alienate the fields that wear his name! What scruples lest some future birth
Should litigate a span of earth! Bonds, contracts, feoffments, names unmeet for prose, The towering muse endures not to disclose;
Alas! her unrevers'd decree,
More comprehensive and more free,
Let gondolas their painted flags unfold,
In nuptial sort, with bridal gold,
Ev'n Adria scorns the mock embrace,
Allotted, from his natal hour,