’Tis said that under distant skies… Nor you the fact deny, What first attracts an Indian’s e… Becomes his deity. Perhaps a lily, or a rose,

From a lone tower, with reverend i… The pealing bell awaked a tender s… Still, as the village caught the w… A swelling tear distream’d from ev… So droop’d, I ween, each Briton’s…

Again the labouring hind inverts t… Again the merchant ploughs the tum… Another spring renews the soldier’… And finds me vacant in the rural c… As the soft lyre display’d my wont…

‘Sir, will you please to walk befo… ‘No, pray, Sir-you are next the d… ‘Upon mine honour, I’ll not stir.… ‘Sir, I’m at home; consider, Sir’… ‘Excuse me, Sir; I’ll not go firs…

I told my nymph, I told her true, My fields were small, my flocks we… While faltering accents spoke my f… That Flavia might not prove since… Of crops destroyed by vernal cold,

No more, ye warbling birds! rejoic… Of all that cheer’d the plain, Echo alone preserves her voice, And she-repeats my pain. Where’er my lovesick limbs I lay

Ye shepherds give ear to my lay, And take no more heed of my sheep: They have nothing to do but to str… I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove;

Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay, Whose flocks never carelessly roam… Should Corydon’s happen to stray, Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to muse and to sigh,

So dear my Lucio is to me, So well our minds and tempers blen… That seasons may for ever flee, And ne’er divide me from my friend… But let the favour’d boy forbear

While orient skies restore the day… And dew-drops catch the lucid ray; Amid the sprightly scenes of morn Will aught the Muse inspire? Oh! peace to yonder clamorous horn

Ye gentle Nymphs and generous Dam… That rule o’er every British mind… Be sure ye soothe their amorous fl… Be sure your laws are not unkind: For hard it is to wear their bloom

If proud Pygmalion quit his cumbr… Funereal pomp the scanty tear supp… Whilst heralds loud, with venal vo… Lo! here the brave and the puissan… When humbler Alcon leaves his dro…

O’er desert plains, and rushy mere… And wither’d heaths I rove; Where tree, nor spire, nor cot, ap… I pass to meet my love. But, though my path were damask’d…

Through the dim veil of evening’s… Near some lone fane, or yew’s fune… What dreary forms has magic Fear… What shrouded spectres Superstiti… But you, secure, shall pour your s…