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HILE orient skies restore the day,

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



Amid the sprightly scenes of morn,

Will aught the Mufe inspire ?
Oh! peace to yonder clamorous horn
That drowns the sacred lyre!

Ye rural thanes that o'er the moffy 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 fwain 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,
And with no random curses loads the deed.

July 7, 1754. She was the intimate friend of Mrs. Rowe, on whose death the wrote some verses, and likewise was auchor of the Epiftles signed Cleora, in the Collection of Letters from the Living to the Dead. Mr. Walpole says, the had as much talte for the writings of others as modefty about her own.

IV. Nor

Nor yet, ye fwains, conclude
That Nature fimiles for


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 support in vain !

But though 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 fource of your delight profound,
Where Ariconium pours her gems profuse,

Purpling a whole horizon round?
Athirst ye praise the limpid stream, 'tis true;

But though, the pebbled shores among,

It mimic no unpleasing song,
The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.

Unpleas'd ye fee the thickets bloom,
Unpleas'd the Spring her Howvery robe resume;

Unmov'd the mountains airy pile,
The dappled mead without a fimile.

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O let the rural conscious Muse,
For well she knows, your froward sense accuse:

Forth to the folemn oak you bring the square,
And span the maffy trunk, before you cry, 'tis fair,

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

If haply from your haunts ye stray
To waste with us a summer's day,
Exclude the taste of every swain,

Nor our untutor'd sense disdain :
"Tis Nature only gives exclusive right

To relifh her supreme delight;
She, where she pleases kind or coy,
Who furnishes the scene, and forms us to enjoy.

Then hither bring the fair ingenuous mind,
By her auspicious 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 such the rivers dath their foaming tides,

The mountain swells, the dale fubfides ;
Ev’n thriftless furze detains their wandering fight,
And the rough barren rock grows pregnant with delight.

IX. With

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