早晨分发一个可疑的光,突然雾had stolen from sight Each pleasing vale and hill; When Damon left his humble bowers, To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers, Or check his wandering rill. Though school'd from Fortune's paths to fly, The swain beneath each lowering sky Would oft his fate bemoan, That he, in sylvan shades forlorn, Must waste his cheerless even and morn, Nor praised, nor loved, nor known. No friend to Fame's obstreperous noise, Yet to the whispers of her voice, Soft murmuring, not a foe: The pleasures he through choice declined, When gloomy fogs depress'd his mind, It grieved him to forego. Grieved him to lurk the lakes beside, Where coots in rushy dingles hide, And moorcocks shun the day; While caitiff bitterns, undismay'd, Remark the swain's familiar shade, And scorn to quit their prey. But see the radiant sun once more, The brightening face of heaven restore, And raise the doubtful dawn; And, more to gild his rural sphere, At once the brightest train appear That ever trod the lawn. Amazement chill'd the shepherd's frame, To think Bridgewater's honour'd name Should grace his rustic cell; That she, on all whose motions wait Distinction, titles, rank, and state, Should rove where shepherds dwell. But true it is, the generous mind, By candour sway'd, by taste refined, Will nought but vice disdain; Nor will the breast where fancy glows, Deem every flower a weed that blows Amid the desert plain. Beseems it such, with honour crown'd, To deal its lucid beams around, Nor equal meed receive; At most such garlands from the field, As cowslips, pinks, and pansies, yield, And rural hands can weave. Yet strive, ye shepherds! strive to find, And weave the fairest of the kind, The prime of all the spring; If haply thus you lovely fair May, round her temples, deign to wear The trivial wreaths you bring. O how the peaceful halcyons play'd, Where'er the conscious lake betray'd Athena's placid mien! How did the sprightlier linnets throng, Where Paphia's charms required the song, 'Mid hazel copses green! Lo, Dartmouth on those banks reclined, While busy Fancy calls to mind The glories of his line! Methinks my cottage rears its head, The ruin'd walls of yonder shed, As through enchantment, shine. But who the nymph that guides their way? Could ever nymph descend to stray From Hagley's famed retreat? Else, by the blooming features fair, The faultless make, the matchless air, 'Twere Cynthia's form complete. So would some tuberose delight, That struck the pilgrim's wondering sight 'Mid lonely deserts drear; All as at eve, the sovereign flower Dispenses round its balmy power, And crowns the fragrant year. Ah! now no more, the shepherd cried, Must I Ambition's charms deride, Her subtle force disown; No more of Fauns or Fairies dream, While Fancy, near each crystal stream, Shall paint these forms alone. By low-brow'd rock or pathless mead, I deem'd that splendour ne'er should lead My dazzled eyes astray; But who, alas! will dare contend, If beauty add, or merit blend, Its more illustrious ray? Nor is it long, O plaintive swain! Since Guernsey saw, without disdain, Where, hid in woodlands green, The partner of his early days, And once the rival of his praise, Had stolen through life unseen. Scarce faded is the vernal flower, Since Stamford left his honour'd bower To smile familiar here: O form'd by Nature to disclose, How fair that courtesy which flows From social warmth sincere! Nor yet have many moons decay'd, Since Pollio sought this lonely shade, Admired this rural maze: The noblest breast that Virtue fires, The Graces love, the Muse inspires, Might pant for Pollio's praise. Say, Thomson here was known to rest; For him you vernal seat I drest, Ah, never to return! In place of wit and melting strains, And social mirth, it now remains To weep beside his urn. Come then, my Lelius! come once more, And fringe the melancholy shore With roses and with bays, While I each wayward Fate accuse, That envied his impartial Muse, To sing your early praise. While Philo, to whose favour'd sight Antiquity, with full delight, Her inmost wealth displays; Beneath yon ruin's moulder'd wall Shall muse, and with his friends recall The pomp of ancient days. Here, too, shall Conway's name appear; He praised the stream so lovely clear, That shone the reeds among; Yet clearness could it not disclose, To match the rhetoric that flows From Conway's polish'd tongue. Even Pitt, whose fervent periods roll Resistless through the kindling soul Of sen