No wailing ghoft fhall dare appear
To vex with fhrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads affemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch fhall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew; But female fays fhall haunt the green, And drefs thy grave with pearly dew.

The red breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary mofs and gather'd flow'rs

To deck the ground where thou art laid,

When howling winds and beating rain
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;

Or 'midft the chafe upon the plain

The tender thought on thee fhall dwell,

Each lonely scene fhall thee reftore,
For thee the tear be duly fhed;
Belov'd, till life can charm no more,
And mourn'd, till pity's felf be dead.

COLLINS,

WHEN here LUCINDA firft we came

Where Arno rolls his filver ftream,

How blithe the nymphs, the fwains how gay,
Content infpir'd each rural lay.

The birds in livelier concert fung,
The grapes in thicker clufters hung,
All look'd as joy could never fail
Among the sweets of Arno's vale,

But now fince good PALEMON died,
The chief of fhepherds and the pride,
Old Arno's fons muft all give place
To northern fwains, an iron race.
The taste of pleasure now is o'er,
Thy notes LUCINDA please no more,
The Mufes droop, the Goths prevail,
Adieu the fweets of Arno's vale.

DORSET.

WHEN lovely woman ftoops to folly,

And finds too late that, men betray,

What charm can footh her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her fhame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bofom, is-to die.

GOLDSMITH.

ELL

my

STREPHON that I die;

TE

Let echoes to each other tell,

Till the mournful accents fly.

To STREPHON's ear, and all is well.

But

But gently breathe the fatal truth,
And soften every harsher sound,
For STREPHON's fuch a tender youth,
The fofteft words too deep will wound.

Now fountains, echoes, all be dumb;
For fhould I coft my fwain a tear,
I fhould repent it in my tomb,
And grieve I bought my reft fo dear.

ROM place to place, forlorn, I go,
With downcaft eyes, a filent shade;

Forbidden to declare my woe;
To fpeak, till spoken to, afraid.

My inward pangs, my fecret grief,
My foft confenting looks betray;
He loves, but gives me no relief;
Why fpeaks not he who may?

STEEL.

THERE is one dark and fullen hour,

Which fate decrees our lives fhould know,

Elfe we thould flight th' Almighty power,
Wrapt in the joys we find below:

'Tis paft, dear CYNTHIA, now let frowns begone,
A long, long pennance I have done
For crimes, alas! to me unknown.

In each foft hour of filent night
Your image in my dream appears;
I grafp the foul of my delight,

Slumber in joys, but wake in tears:

Ah! faithlefs charming faint, what will you do?

Let me not think I am by you

Lov'd lefs for being true.

FAIR, and foft, and gay, and young,

All charm! the play'd, fhe danc'd, fhe fung,

There