Ye envious Winds! the cause display,

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In whispers as ye blow,

Why did your treach'rous gales convey
The poison'd shafts of woe?

And must he leave the wood, the field,

Our Father, King, and God!

Who clear'st the paths of life and sense,

Or stopp'st them at thy nod.

Bless'd Power! who calm'st the raging deep,

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His valued health restore,

Nor let the sons of Genius weep,

Nor let the Good deplore.

But if thy boundless wisdom know's

His longer date an ill,

Let not my soul a wish disclose

To contradict thy will.

For happy, happy were the change,
For such a godlike mind,

To go where kindred spirits range,
Nor leave a wish behind.

And tho' to share his pleasures here
Kings might their state forego,
Yet must he feel such raptures there
As none can taste below.

VERSES LEFT ON A SEAT.

THE HAND UNKNOWN.

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O EARTH! to his remains indulgent be,
Who so much care and cost bestow'd on thee;
Who crown'd thy barren hills with useful shade,
And cheer'd with tinkling rills each silent glade; 4
Here taught the day to wear a thoughtful gloom,
And there enliven'd Nature's vernal bloom.
Propitious Earth! lie lightly on his head,

And ever on his tomb thy vernal glories spread! 8

CORYDON, A PASTORAL.

TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ.

BY MR. J. CUNNINGHAM.

I.

CÓME, Shepherds! we'll follow the herse,

And see our lov'd Corydon laid!
Tho' sorrow may blemish the verse,
Yet let the sad tribute be paid.

They call'd him the Pride of the Plain;
In sooth he was gentle and kind;
He mark'd in his elegant strain
The graces that glow'd in his mind.

II.

On purpose he planted yon' trees,
That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,
But never would rifle their cell.
Ye Lambkins! that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat-and your master bemoan:
His music was artless aud sweet,
His manners as mild as your own.
III.

No verdure shall cover the vale,
No bloom on the blossoms appear;
The sweets of the forest shall fail,
And winter discolour the year.

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10

15

20

No birds in our hedges shall sing,

(Our hedges, so vocal before)

Since he that should welcome the spring

Can greet the gay season no more.

IV.

His Phyllis was fond of his praise,
And poets came round in a throng;
They listen'd, and envy'd his lays,
But which of them equall'd his song?

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Ye Shepherds! henceforward be mute,
For lost is the Pastoral strain;

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So give me my Corydon's flute,

And thus-let me break it in twain.

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He arrives at his retirement in the country, and takes occasion to expatiate in praise of simplicity. To a Friend. FOR rural virtues, and for native skies,

I bade Augusta's venal sons farewell;
Now 'mid the trees I see my smoke arise,
Now hear the fountains bubbling round my cell.

O may that Genius which secures my rest
Preserve this villa for a friend that's dear!
Ne'er may my vintage glad the sordid breast,
Ne'er tinge the lip that dares be unsincere!

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10

Far from these paths, ye faithless Friends! depart;
Fly my plain board, abhor my hostile name!
Hence, the faint verse that flows not from the heart,
But mourns in labour'd strains, the price of fame!