"Young stranger, whosoe'er thou art, "(For sure it ought to be believed, "Since in my pangs thou bear'st no part, "Far from my source, in some bleak wild, "Where Wit and Beauty never smil❜d, "Thou drew'st thy natal breath) attend, "And make our wretchedness thy own; "Not that yon lowering clouds impend, "Not that we view these groves bereav'd "Of leafy honours, do we moan; "But that from these neglected shades, "Anticipating Winter's reign,

"Fair Harriet flies; who, midst the maids "That haunt the margin of yon stream, "Winding along my fertile plain,

"Shone with unrivall'd elegance; "Of these unbidden tears, that force "Their passage, she, the conscious theme, "Flies, unrelenting as the wind, "Nor casts one pitying glance behind, "To bid these meads a last adieu : "Hadst thou beheld that graceful ease "With which she trod, in mazy dance "My fragrant vales and woodbine bowers, "Slighting applause, secure to please,

When, votary of the rural powers, "She quitted Thames's banks, resign'd "The studied ornaments of dress, "And look'd, and was, a Shepherdess, "Thou too hadst sympathiz'd with these, "Whose smart excites thy gaiety. "Whether to term such ignorance "Of this transcendant fair, mischance, "Or bliss, I hesitate; beware

Rashly the magic cup to share

"Of dangerous Sensibility,

"That draught, to vulgar lips denied, "Where in confusion blended lie

"Th' extremes of pleasure and of pain; "Hence all its baleful dregs to miss, "Yet taste the quintessence of bliss, "Heaven's favourites, few alone attain. "Love in a slight degree beguiles "The storms of Life's precarious tide; "But if too far its Siren smiles "The guardless traveller bewitch,

Headlong to rush into the snare, "Urged on by Hope, beset with Care, "Too late, solicitous to fly,

"He feels it in its utmost pitch,
"Distraction all and agony."

He ended; and the bubbling fount,
Closed o'er his venerable head,
First having bade me to recount
To the dank vales and lowly cot,
Where Fate assign'd my humble lot,
The truths he spoke, the tears he shed.
O, form'd to shine in every sphere!
How shall the pastoral Muse presume
To wish ingloriously confin'd
A nymph so fitted to adorn

The court and splendid drawing-room,
From an admiring nation's gaze,

From scenes, where in full radiance blaze
The beauties which adorn that mind,
And animate those features, here
Amid the pines, grotesque and rude,
O'ershadowing this deep solitude?
Yet sometimes deign to lay aside
Those envied gaieties, nor scorn
To visit our forsaken rill.

Old legend tells, on Ida's hill,
With winged Hermes for their guide,
Erst to the Phrygian shepherd's will
Contending Goddesses applied,
And, urging eagerly their suit,
Tho' with each boon of Heaven endued,
O'erjoyed with the vicissitude,

Sought from his hand the golden fruit.
Should you, like these, awhile forego
The surer triumphs of your eyes,
Thro' curiosity to know,

If aught of ancient taste remains
Among us simple village swains,
And from our verdict seek the prize;
Boldly with an applauding voice
Should we decide, nor fear, lest Age,
Or miserable Envy's rage,

Might deem us biass'd in our choice:
Each snarling censor we defy

Whose honest judgement truth ensures
Against that idle calumny,

That, with a Venus' person caught,
Minerva's wit we little sought
When either claim confirms it yours.
Alas, in such untutor'd plains,
Ill can these rustic fingers hold
A lyre, attemper'd to the strains
In which immortal Chaulieu told

Of Turenne snatch'd from Victory's arms,
Of Bethune's wisdom, Bouillon's charms,
And Steinkerque's memorable day;
Indeed, like Orpheus' magic song
His drew no listening brutes along,
But in a light and polish'd age,

Which Science loved to call her own,
When from the height of Louis' throne
She darted forth her broadest ray,
Beside the winding banks of Seine,
Where blooms Parisian elegance,
He wove th' Epicurean page;
Superior to the frowns of Chance,
Tho' Time had silver'd o'er his head,
The myrtle groves, the trim parterres
And fragrant jasmine walks between,
He tun'd his charming shell, while cares,
And the wan forms of sorrow fled,
Soothing his audience with the flames
Of mighty chiefs and courtly dames.

How shall this hoarse and scrannel flute, Regarded only by my flocks,

That listening browse yon thymy rocks,
To such high stop its ditties suit,
As Harriet's self may deign to hear?
All hopeless I attempt to raise
Strains that could sooth your nicer ear,
And utter in these Runic lays
Accents uncouth, disgustful praise.

Tho' on my mouldering cottage wall,
Perchance with momentary gleam,
Some Muse's kindlier influence fall;
On the glad augury, in vain,
My too aspiring soul relies,
And at your feet presents the strain,
Th' inexorable Power denies
Expressions worthy of my theme.

1767.

ODE TO JUSTICE.

BY THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.

ETERNAL Justice, first and best
Of all the Virtues! Thou whose ear
Is ever open to the Oppressed:
O Thou! whom purple Tyrants fear;
And trembling 'midst the gorgeous feast,
See high-suspended o'er their head

Thy outstretched arm, and ensigns dread,
And that huge beam aloft pourtrayed
By which their secret crimes are weighed,
Balanced in thy even scale;

Scanned by thy all-searching eye
The arts of Falsehood nought avail,
Or secret Fraud, or bold Impiety!
Slow to revenge, yet sure! Ere long
Thy judgments shall repay the wrong;

The impious in their mad career o'ertake,

And bid within their breasts the scorpion conscience

wake.

Clad with the triple lightning's force,

'Midst heaven's resplendent archives stored,

Pavilioned in thick darkness sleeps thy sword;

Which oft cherubic Ardors bright

Bathe in cerulean founts of light,

Or on the blade with reverence gaze;
When flashing strong the empyrean blaze,

It leaps in terror forth, and wings its destined course;