The happiest mortal once was I,
My heart no forrow knew;
Pity the pain with which I die,
But ask not whence it grew;
Yet if a tempting fair you find,
That's very lovely, very kind,

Though bright as heav'n whose stamp she bears,
Think on my fate and fhun her fnares.

O.

G

SONG LXI.

RIM king of the ghofts make hafte,
And bring hither all your train:

See how the pale moon does waste,

And just now is in the wane.

Come, you night hags with all your charms,

And reveling witches away

And hug me close in your arms,

To you my respects I'll pay.

I'll court you, and think

you fair,

Since love does distract my brain; I'll go, and I'll wed the night-mare, And kiss her, and kiss her again : But if the prove peevish and proud, Then a pize on her love, let her go;

I'll feek me a winding shroud,

And down to the fhades below.

A lunacy fad I endure

Since reafon departs away; I call to thofe hags for a cure, As knowing not what I fay. The beauty whom I do adore

Now flights me with scorn and disdain; I never fhall fee her more,

Ah! how fhall I bear my pain?

I ramble and range about

To find out my charming faint; Whilst she at my grief does flout, And laughs at my loud complaint. Diftraction I fee is my doom,

Of this I am now too fure;

A rival is got in my room,

While torments I do endure.

Strange fancies do fill my head,
While wandering in defpair,
I am to the defart led,
Expecting to find her there.
Methinks in a fpangled cloud

I fee her enthroned on high;
Then to her I cry aloud,

And labour to reach the sky.

When thus I have raved a while,

And wearied myself in vain, I lie on the barren foil,

And bitterly do complain.

Till flumber hath quieted me,
In forrow I figh and weep;
The clouds are my canopy,
To cover me while I sleep.

I dream that my charming fair
Is then in my rivals bed,
Whofe treffes of golden hair

Are on the fair pillow bespread.
Then this doth my paffion inflame,
I ftart, and no longer can lie ;
Ah! Sylvia, art thou not to blame
To ruin a lover? I cry.

Grim king of the ghofts be true,

And hurry me hence away,
My languishing life to you
A tribute I freely pay:
To the Elyfian fhades I poft,
In hopes to be freed from care,
Where many a bleeding ghost
Is hovering in the air.

O.

SONG LXII.

BY SIR CAR SCROOPE.

ΟΝ

NE night when all the village flept,
Myrtillos fad despair,

The wretched fhepherd waking kept

To tell the woods his care;

*In Lees tragedy of Mithridates King of Pontus,

Begone (faid he) fond thoughts, begone!
Eyes, give your forrows o'er!

Why should you wafte your tears for one,
Who thinks on you no more?

Yet, oh! ye birds, ye flocks, ye pow'rs,
That dwell within this grove,
Can tell how many tender hours
We here have pass'd in love!
Yon ftars above (my cruel foes!)
Have heard how fhe has fworn,
A thousand times, that like to those,
Her flame fhould ever burn!

But fince fhe's loft-oh! let me have
My wish, and quickly die;

In this cold bank I'll make a grave,
And there for ever lie:

Sad nightingales the watch fhall keep,
And kindly here complain.
Then down the shepherd lay to fleep,
But never rofe again.

SONG LXIII.

A PASTORAL

ELEGY.

H, Damon, dear fhepherd, adieu!

By love and first nature allied,

Together in fondness we grew;
Ah, would we together had died!

For

For thy faith which resembled my own,
For thy foul which was spotless and true,
For the joys we together have known,

Ah, amon, dear fhepherd, adieu!

What blifs can hereafter be mine?
Whomever engaging, I fee,

To his friendship I ne'er can incline,

For fear I fhould mourn him like thee.
Though the Muses should crown me with art,
Though honour and fortune fhould join ;

Since thou art denied to my heart,
What blifs can hereafter be mine?

Ah, Damon, dear fhepherd, farewell!
Thy grave with fad ofiers I'll bind;
Though no more in one cottage we dwell,
I can keep thee for ever in mind:
Each morning I'll vifit alone

His afhes who lov'd me fo well,

And murmur each eve o'er his stone,
"Ah, Damon, dear fhepherd, farewell!"

SONG LXIV.

BY MR. EDWARD MOOR E.

ARK! hark! 'tis a voice from the tomb!

HA Come, Lucy, it cries, come away;

The grave of thy Collin has room,
To reft thee befide his cold clay.