Receiv'd him to their bright abodes:
Where Hebe crown'd his blooming joys;
Garlands the willing Mufes wove,
And each with emulation ftrove
T'adorn the Churchill of the skies.
II.

For Albion's chief, ye facred nine!
Your harps with generous ardour string,
With Fame's immortal trumpet join,
And safe beneath his laurel fing:
When clad in vines the Seine fhall glide,
And duteous in a fmoother tide,
To British feas her tribute yield;
Wakeful at Honour's fhrine attend,
And long with living beams defend
From night, the warrior's votive shield.

III.

And, Woodstock, let his dome exalt thy fame,
Great o'er thy Norman ruins be reflor'd ;
Thou that with pride dott Edward's cradle claim,
Receive an equal hero for thy lord:
Whilft every column to record their toils
Eternal monuments of conqueft wears,

And all thy walls are drefs'd with mingled spoils,
Gather'd on fam'd Ramillia and Poitiers,
High on thy tower the grateful flag difplay,
Due to thy Queen's reward, and Blenheim's glorious
day.

FLORELI O;

A PASTORAL,

Lamenting the Death of the late

MARQUIS OF BLANDFORD.

ASK not the caufe why all the tuneful fwains,

Who us'd to fill the vales with tender strains,
In deep despair neglect the warbling reed,
And all their bleating flocks refufe to feed.
Afk not why greens and flowers fo late appear
To clothe the glebe, and deck the springing year;
Why founds the lawn with loud laments and cries,
And fwoln with tears to floods the rivulets rife :
The Fair Florelio now has left the plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of every Bri-
tish swain.

For thee, lov'd youth! on every vale and lawn,
The nymphs and all thy fellow fhepherds moan.
The little birds now cease to fing and love,
Silent they fit, and droop in every grove:
No mounting lark now warbles on the wing,
Nor linnets chirp to cheer the fullen fpring:
Only the melancholy turtles coo,
And Philomel by night repeats her woe.
O, charmer of the fhades! the tale prolong,
Nor let the morning interrupt thy fong:
Or foftly tune thy tender notes to mine,
Forgetting Tereus, make my forrows thins.
VOL. IV.

Now the dear youth has left the lonely plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of every Bris
fith fwain.

Say, all ye fhades, where late he us'd to reft,
If e'er your beds with lovelier fwain were prest;
Say, all ye filver streams, if e'er ye bore
The image of fo fair a face before.

But now, ye ftreams, affift me whilst I mourn,
For never must the lovely swain return;
And, as these flowing tears increase your tide, }
O, murmur for the shepherd as ye glide:
Be fure, ye rocks, while I my grief disclose,
Let your fad echoes lengthen out my woes:
Ye breezes, bear the plaintive accent on,
And, whispering, tell the floods Florelio's gone;
For ever gone, and left the lonely plain,

And is the grief, who was the grace, of every Bri
tish fwain.

Ripe ftrawberries for thee, and peaches grew,
Sweet to the tafte, and tempting red to view.
For thee the rofe put fweeter purple on,
Preventing, by her hatte, the fummer-fun.]
But now the flowers all pale and blighted lie,
And in cold fweats of fickly mildew die.
Nor can the bees fuck from the shrivel'd blooms
Æthereal fweets, to store their golden combs.
And sweeter odours from thy mouth receive:
Oft' on thy lips they would their labour leave,
Sweet as the breath of Flora, when the lies
In jasmine inades, and for young Zephyr lighs.
But now thofe lips are cold; relentless death
Hath chill'd their charms, and ftopt thy balmy
breath.

Those eyes, where Cupid tipp'd his darts with fire,
And kindled in the coldeft nymphs defire,
Robb'd of their beams, in everlasting night
Are clos'd, and give us woes as once delight:
And thou, dear youth, haft left the lonely plain,
And art the grief, who wert the grace, of every
British fwain.

As in his bower the dying shepherd lay,
The shepherd yet fo young, and once fo gay!
The nymphs that swim the ftream, and range the

wood,

And haunt the flowery meads, around him stood.
There tears down each fair cheek unbounded fell,
And as he g fp'd, they gave a fad farewel.
Softly, they cry'd, as fleeping flowers are clos'd
By night, be thy dear eyes by death compos'd:
A gentle fall may thy young beauties have,
And golden flumbers wait thee in the grave:
Yearly thy hearse with garlands we'll adorn,
And teach young nightingales for thee to mourn;
Bees love the blooms, the flocks the bladed grain,
Nor lefs wert thou belov'd by every swain.
Come, thepherds, come, perform the funeral due,
For he was ever good and kind to you:
On every smoothest b.ech, in every grove,
In weeping characters reco:d your love.
And as in memo y of Adonis flain,
When for the youth the Syrian maids complain,
His river, to record the guilty day,
With freshly bleeding purple stains the sea:
So thou, dear Cam, contribute to our woe,
And bid thy ftream in plaintive murmurs flow:
Thy head with thy own willow boughs adorn,
And with thy tears fupply the frugal urn,

FENTON'S POEM S.

The fwains their fheep, the nymphs fhall leave the
lawn,

And yearly on their banks renew their moan:
His mother, while they there lament, fhall be
The queen of love, the lov'd Adonis he:
On her, like Venus, all the Graces wait,
And he too like Adonis in his fate!

For fresh in fragrant youth he left the plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of every
tish fwain.

No more the nymphs, that o'er the brooks prefide,
Drefs their gay beauties by the crystal tide,
Nor fly the wint ry winds, nor fcorching fun,
Now he, for whom they ftrove to charm, is gone.
Oft' they beneath their reedy coverts figh'd,
And look'd and long'd, and for Florelio dy'd.
Of him they fang, and with foft ditties ftrove
To footh the pleafing agonies of love.
But now they roam, distracted with defpair,
And cyprefs, twin'd with mournful willows, wear.
Thus, hand-in-hand, around his grave they go,
And faffron-buds and fading lilies ftrow,
With fprigs of myrtle mix'd, and scattering cry,
So fweet and foft the shepherd was! fo foon decreed
to die!

As when fome cruel hind has borne away
The turtle's neft, and made the young his prey,
Sad in her native grove the fits alone,

There hangs her wings, and murmurs out her moan;
So the bright shepherdefs, who bore the boy,
Beneath a baleful yew does weeping lie;
Bri-Nor from the filent earth her eyes removes,
Nor can the fair the weighty woe fuftain,
But bends, like rofes cruth'd with falling rain;
Not fuch her look (fevere reverse of fate')
That, weeping, languish like a dying dore's.
When little Loves in every dimple fate;
And all the Smiles delighted to refort
On the calm heaven of her foft cheeks to sport:
Soft as the clouds mild April evenings wear,
Which drop fresh flowrets on the youthful year.
The fountain's fall can't lull her wakeful woes,
Nor poppy-garlands give the nymph repose:
Through prickly brakes, and unfrequented groves,
Q'er hills and dales, and craggy cliffs, the roves.
And when the fpies, beneath fome filent shade,
And all with gufhing tears bedews the grafs.
The daifies prefs'd, where late his limbs were laid,
To the cold print there close the joins her face,
There with loud plaints fhe wounds the pitying fkies,
And, oh! return, my lovely youth, the cries;
Return, Florelio, with thy wonted charms
In Death's cold arms must pale and breathless lie.
Fill the foft circle of my longing arms-
Ceafe, fair affiction, ceafe! the lovely boy
The Fates can never change their first decree,
Or fure they would have chang'd this one for thee.
Pan for his Syrinx makes eternal moan,
Ceres her daughter loft, and thou thy fon.
Thy fon for ever now has left the plain,

There, fresh in dear remembrance of their woes,
His name the young anemonies difclofe:
Nor ftrange they fhould a double grief avow,
Then Venus wept, and Paftorella now.
Breathe foft, ye winds! long let them paint the plain,
Uuhurt, untouch'd by every paffing fwain.
And when, ye nymphs, to make the garlands gay,
With which ye crown the Mistress of the May,
Ye fhall thefe flowers to bind her temples take,
O pluck them gently for Florelio's fake!

And when through Woodstock's green retreats ye And is the grief, who was the grace, of every Bri

Atray,

Or Althrop's flowery vales invite to play;
O'er which young Paftorella's beauties bring
Elyfium early, and improve the fpring:
When evening gales attentive filence keep,
And heaven its balmy dew begins to weep,
By the foft fall of every warbling ftream,

Sigh your fad airs, and blefs the shepherd's name :
There to the tender lure attune your woe,
While hyacinths and myrtles round you grow.
So may Sylvanus ever 'tend your bowers,
And Zephyr brush the mildew from the flowers!
Bid all the fwans from Cam and Ifis hatte,
In the melodious choir to breathe their lait.
O Colin, Colin, could I there complain
Like thee, when young Philifides was flain!
Thou fweet frequenter of the Mules' stream!
Why have I not thy voice, or thou my theme?
Though weak my voice, though lowly be my lays,
They fhall be facred to the fhepherd's praife:
To him my voice, to him my lays belong,
And bright Myrtilla now mutt live unfung:
Even fhe, whofe artless beauty, blefi'd me more
Than ever fwain was blefs'd by nymph before;
While every tender figh to our blifs
Brought a kind vow, and every vow a kifs:

Fair, chatte, and kind, yet now no more can move,
So much my grief is stronger than my love:
Now the dear youth has left the lonely plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of every Bri-

tish fwain.

tish fwain.

Adieu, ye moffy caves, and fhady groves,
Once happy fcenes of our fuccesful loves:
Ye hungry herds, and bleating flocks, adieu!
Flints be your beds, and browze the bitter yew.
Two lambs alone shall be my charge to feed,
For yearly on his grave two lambs shall bleed.
This pledge of lafting love, dear fhade, receive;
'Tis all, alas, a fhepherd's love can give!
But grief from its own power will fet me free,
Will fend me foon a willing ghost to thee:
Cropt in the flowery spring of youth, I'll go
With hafty joy to wait thy fhade below:
In ever-fragrant meads, and jafmine-bowers,
We'll dwell, and all Elyfium fhall be ours.
Where citron groves æthereal odours breathe,
And streams of flowing cryftal purl beneath;
Where all are ever young, and heavenly fair,
As here above thy fitter Graces are.

WHAT art thou, Life, whofe ftay we court?
Since we're but fickle Forture's iport,
thy rival Death we fear?
Why fhould we wifh t' inhabit here,

And think the race we find to rough too short ?