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Fond deceits, and kind surprises ;
WRITTEN AT BUXTON.
O ROSY health, heart-easy maid,
0, could my voice such numbers raise,
O lover of the daisied lawn! 'Tis thine, at earliest peep of dawn, The ranging forester to greet; Or the blithe lass, whose tripping feet, All as she sings beneath the pail, Imprint long traces o'er the vale. Nor seekest thou the proud resorts Of cities and licentious courts, Where Sloth and Gluttony abide, With bloated Surfeit by their side; But humbly scornest not to dwell With Temperance in the rural cell ; To watch the sheepboy at his stand, Or ploughman on the furrow'd land. These climates cold, these barren plains, Where rude uncultured Nature reigns, Better thy hardy manners please Than bowers of Luxury and Ease. And oft you trip these hills among With Exercise, a sportsman young, Who, starting at the call of day, Cuffs drowsy Indolence away, And climbs with many a sturdy stride The mossy mountain's quivering side; Nor fleeting mist nor sullen storm Nor blast nor whirlwind can deform The careless scene when thou art there With Cheerfulness, thy daughter fair. From thee, bright Health, all blessings spring! Hither thy blooming children bring, Light-hearted Mirth and Sport and Joy And young-eyed Love, thy darling boy. 'Tis thou hast pour'd o'er Beauty's face Its artless bloom, its native grace;
Thou on my Laura's cheek hast spread
COME here, fond youth, whoe'er thou be,
That boasts to love as well as me;
Come hither and thy flame approve;
I'll teach thee what it is to love, And by what marks true passion may be found.
It is to be all bathed in tears;
To live upon a smile for years;
To kneel, to languish, and implore;
And still, though she disdain, adore: It is to do all this, and think thy sufferings sweet.
It is to gaze upon her eyes
Yet temper'd with such chaste and awful fear
As wretches feel who wait their doom;
Nor must one ruder thought presume, Though but in whispers breathed, to meet her ear.
It is to hope, though hope were lost;
Though heaven and earth thy passion cross'd, Though she were bright as sainted queens above,
And thou the least and meanest swain
That folds his flocks upon the plain, Yet if thou darest not hope thou dost not love.
It is to quench thy joy in tears;
To nurse strange doubts and causeless fears : If pangs of jealousy thou hast not proved,
Though she were fonder and more true
Than any nymph old poets drew,
If, when the darling maid is gone,
Thou dost not seek to be alone,
And muse and fold thy languid arms,
Feeding thy fancy on her charms,
If any hopes thy bosom share
But those which love has planted there, Or any cares but his thy breast enthrall,
Thou never yet his power hast known;
Love sits on a despotic throne,
Now if thou art so lost a thing,
And prove whose patience longest can endure;
We'll strive whose fancy shall be lost
In dreams of fondest passion most; For if thou thus hast loved, oh, never hope a cure!
Oh Thou! whose empire unconfined
The slow-eyed Cares thy mild dominion
But, hovering round on frolic pinion,
The full orb'd moon, that rose all glowing,
In liquid warbles fondly flowing,
Yet lovelier beams the gentle glory
Yet sweeter than his warbled story