a Frances, eldest daughter of the honourable Henry Thynne, only fon of Thomas first Viscount Weymouth. She was married to Algernon Earl of Hertford afterwards Duke of Somerset, and died at Percy Lodge July

VOL. V.

A

Amid the fprightly fcenes of morn,
Will aught the Mufe inspire?
Oh! peace to yonder clamorous horn
That drowns the facred lyre!

II.

Ye rural thanes that o'er the moffy down
Some panting, timorous hare purfue;
Does Nature mean your joys alone to crown?
Say, does the fmooth her lawns for you?;
For you does Echo bid the rocks reply,
And, urg'd by rude constraint, refound the jovial cry?

III.

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn
The wretched fwain your fport furvey;

He finds his faithful fences torn,

He finds his labour'd crops a prey;
He fees his flock-no more in circles feed;"
Haply beneath your ravage bleed,

And with no random curfes loads the deed.

July 7, 1754. She was the intimate friend of Mrs. Rowe, on whose death the wrote fome verfes, and likewife was author of the Epiftles figned Cleora, in the Collection of Letters from the Living to the Dead. Mr. Walpole fays, the had as much tafte for the writings of others as modefty about her own.

IV. Nor

IV.

Nor yet, ye fwains, conclude

That Nature finiles for you alone;

Your bounded fouls, and your conceptions crude,
The proud, the selfish boast disown:
Yours be the produce of the foil!

O may it still reward your toil!
Nor ever the defenceless train

Of clinging infants, afk fupport in vain!

V.

But though the various harveft gild your plains,

Does the mere landscape feast your eye?

Or the warm hope of diflant gains
Far other caufe of glee fupply?
Is not the red-ftreak's future juice
The fource of your delight profound,
Where Ariconium pours her gems profufe,
Purpling a whole horizon round?

Athirst ye praise the limpid ftream, 'tis true;
But though, the pebbled fhores among,

It mimic no unpleafing fong,

The limpid fountain murmurs not for

VI.

you.

Unpleas'd ye fee the thickets bloom,

Unpleas'd the Spring her flowery robe resume;

Unmov'd the mountains airy pile,

The dappled mead without a fimile.

O let the rural confcious Mufe,

For well she knows, your froward fenfe accufe:
Forth to the folemn oak you bring the fquare,

And fpan the maffy trunk, before you cry, 'tis fair.
VII.

hor yet ye learn'd, nor yet ye courtly train,

If haply from your haunts ye stray
To waste with us a fummer's day,

Exclude the taste of every

fwain,

Nor our unfutor'd sense disdain:

'Tis Nature only gives exclufive right
To relifh her fupreme delight;
She, where the pleases kind or coy,

Who furnishes the fcene, and forms us to enjoy.

VIII.

Then hither bring the fair ingenuous mind,

By her aufpicious aid refin'd;

Lo! not an hedge-row hawthorn blows,
Or humble hare-bell paints the plain,

Or valley winds, or fountain flows,

Or purple heath is ting'd in vain :

For fuch the rivers dash their foaming tides,

The mountain fwells, the dalé fubfides;

Ev'n thriftless furze detains their wandering fight,

And the rough barren rock grows pregnant with delight.