CONTENT.

O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and As wilder'd and wearied I roam,

[bare, A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair, And leads me-o'er lawns-to her home: Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd,

Green rushes were strew'd on her floor,

Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly And deck'd the sod seats at her door. [round,

We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast; Fresh fruits! and she cull'd me the best: While thrown from my guard by some glances she Love slily stole into my breast!

I told my soft wishes; she sweetly replied (Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)

[cast,

'I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied, But take me, fond shepherd-I'm thine.'

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek!
So simple, yet sweet, were her charms!

I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,
And lock'd the dear maid in my arms.
Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,
And if, by yon prattler, the stream,
Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views,

Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,
And point out new themes for my muse.

To

pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire, The damsel's of humble descent;

The cottager Peace is well known for her sire, And shepherds have named her Content.

THE RESPITE.

AH, what is 't to me that the grasshopper sings! Or what that the meadows are fair!

That (like little flowerets, if mounted on wings)
The butterflies flaunt it in air!

Ye birds, I'll no longer attend to a lay;
Your haunts in the forest resign;

Shall you, with your true loves, be happy all day,
Whilst I am divided from mine?

Where woodbines and willows inclined to unite, We twisted a blooming alcove;

And oft has my Damon, with smiles of delight,
Declared it the Mantle of Love.

The roses that crept to our mutual recess,
And rested among the sweet boughs,

Are faded they droop-and they cannot do less,
For Damon is false to his vows.

This oak has for ages the tempest defied,
We call it-the king of the grove;

He swore, a light breeze should its centre divide,
When he was not true to his love:

Come, come, gentle zephyr, in justice descend,
His falsehood you're bound to display;
This oak and its honours you'll easily rend,
For Damon has left me—a day.

The shepherd rush'd forth from behind the thick
Prepared to make Phillida bless'd,
[tree,
And clasping the maid, from a heart full of glee,
The cause of his absence confess'd:-
:-
High raptures, 'twas told him by masters in love,
Too often repeated would cloy;

And respites

-he found were the means to im

And lengthen the moments of joy.

[prove

A PASTORAL'.

WHERE the fond zephyr through the woodbine

plays,

[bower, And wakes sweet fragrance in the mantling Near to that grove my lovely bridegroom stays Impatient, for 'tis pass'd-the promised hour!

Lend me thy light, O ever sparkling star!

Bright Hesper! in thy glowing pomp array'd, Look down, look down, from thy all glorious car, And beam protection on a wandering maid.

'Tis to escape the penetrating spy,

And pass, unnoticed, from malignant sight, This dreary waste, full resolute, I try,

And trust my footsteps to the shades of night.

The Moon has slipp'd behind an envious cloud,
Her smiles, so gracious, I no longer view;
Let her remain behind that envious shroud,
My hopes, bright Hesperus, depend on you.

The hint taken from the 7th Idyllium of Moschus, translated by Dr. Broome.

No rancour ever reach'd my harmless breast;
I hurt no birds, nor rob the bustling bee:
Hear, then, what Love and Innocence request,
And shed your kindest influence on me.

Thee Venus loves-first twinkler of the sky, Thou art her star-in golden radiance gay! my distresses cast a pitying eye,

On

Assist me-for, alas! I've lost my way.

I see the darling of my soul- -my Love!
Expression can't the mighty rapture tell:
He leads me to the bosom of the grove:
Thanks, gentle star-kind Hesperus, farewell!

ON THE BIRTH OF THE QUEEN.

A PASTORAL HYMN TO JANUS.

Te primum pia thura rogent-te vota salutent, te colat omnis honos.

MART. ad Janum.

To Janus, gentle shepherds! raise a shrine:
His honours be divine!

And as to mighty Pan with homage bow:

To him the virgin troop shall tribute bring; Let him be hail'd like the green liveried Spring,

Spite of the wintry storms that stain his brow.

The pride, the glowing pageantry of May,
Glides wantonly away:

But January', in his rough-spun vest,

Boasts the full blessings that can never fade, He that gave birth to the illustrious maid, Whose beauties make the British Monarch bless'd!

Could the soft Spring with all her sunny showers,
The frolic nurse of flowers!

Or flaunting Summer, flush'd in ripen'd pride,
Could they produce a finish'd sweet so rare?
Or from his golden stores, a gift so fair,
Say, has the fertile Autumn e'er supplied?

Henceforward let the hoary month be gay
As the white hawthorn'd May!

The laughing goddess of the Spring disown'd,
Her rosy wreath shall on His brows appear:
Old Janus as he leads, shall fill the year,
And the less fruitful Autumn be dethroned.

Above the other months supremely bless'd,
Glad Janus stands confess'd!

He can behold with retrospective face
The mighty blessings of the year gone by:
Where, to connect a Monarch's nuptial tie,
Assembled every glory, every grace!

When he looks forward on the flattering year,
The golden hours appear,

As in the sacred reign of Saturn, fair:

Britain shall prove from this propitious date, Her honours perfect, victories complete, And boast the brightest hopes, a British Heir.

This poem was written on the supposition that her Majesty's birthday was really in the month of January.