In valleys where mild whispers use; Of shade and stream, to court the muse; While wand'ring o'er the brook's dim verge, I hear the stock-dove's dying dirge. But when life's busier scene is o'er, And Age shall give the tresses hoar, I'd fly soft Luxury's marble dome, And make an humble thatch my home, Which sloaping hills around enclose, Where many a beech and brown oak grows; Beneath whose dark and branching bow'rs It's tides a far-fam'd river pours: By nature's beauties taught to please, Sweet Tusculane of rural ease! Still grot of Peace! in lowly shed Who loves to rest her gentle head. For not the scenes of Attic art Can comfort care, or sooth the heart: Nor burning cheek, nor wakeful eye, For gold, and Tyrian purple fly. Thither, kind heav'n, in pity lent, Send me a little, and content; The faithful friend, and chearful night, The social scene of dear delight: The conscience pure, the temper gay, The musing eve, and idle day. Give me beneath cool shades to sit, Rapt with the charms of classic wit: To catch the bold heroic flame, That built immortal Græcia's fame. Nor let me fail, meantime, to raise The solemn song to Britain's praise: To spurn the shepherd's simple reeds And paint heroic ancient deeds: To chaunt fam'd ARTHUR'S magic tale, And EDWARD, stern in fable mail. Or wand'ring BRUTUS' lawless doom, Or brave BONDUCA, scourge of Rome; O ever to sweet Poesie, Let me live true votary! She shall lead me by the hand, Queen of sweet smiles, and solace bland! She from her precious stores shall shed Ambrosial flow'rets o'er my head: She, from my tender youthful cheek, Can wipe, with lenient finger meek, The secret and unpitied tear, Which still I drop in darkness drear. She shall be my blooming bride, With her, as years successive glide, I'll hold divinest dalliance, For ever held in holy trance. A PASTORAL IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER. FROM THEOCRITUS. IDYLL XX. BY THE SAME. I. As late I strove LUCILLA'S lip to kiss, She with discurtesee reprov'd my will; Dost thou, she said, affect so pleasaunt bliss, A simple shepherd, and a losell vile? Not Fancy's hand should join my courtly lip To thine, as I myself were fast asleep. II. As thus she spake, full proud and boasting lasse, And as a peacocke pearke, in dalliance, She bragly turned her ungentle face, And all disdaining ey'd my shape askaunce: But I did blush, with grief and shame yblent, Like morning-rose with hoary dewe besprent. III.