A

COLLECTION

O F

POEMS

IN SIX VOLUMES.

BY

SEVERAL HAND S.

LONDON: Printed by J. HUGHS,
For R. and J. DODSLEY, at Tully's-Head in Pall-Mall.
M DCC LVIII.

RURAL ELEGANCE:

An O D E to the late Duchefs of SOMERSET.

Written 1750.

By WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Efq;

I.

HILE orient skies restore the day,

WHILE

And dew-drops catch the lucid ray}

Amid the fprightly scenes of morn,

Will aught the Muse inspire ?
Oh! peace to yonder clamorous horn
That drowns the facred lyre!

VOL. V.

A

II. Ye

II.

Ye tural Thanes that o'er the moffy down
Some panting, timorous hare purfue;
Does nature mean your joys alone to crown ?
Say, does fhe fmoothe her lawns for you?
For you does Echo bid the rocks reply,
And urg'd by rude constraint refound the jovial cry

III.

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn
The wretched fwain your fport furvey
He finds his faithful fences torn,

He finds his labour'd crops a prey;
He fees his flock no more in citcles feeds
Haply beneath your ravage bleed,

And with no random curfes loads the deed.

IV.

Nor yet, ye fwains, conclude

That nature fmiles for you alone;

Your bounded fouls, and your conceptions crude,
The proud, the selfish boaft difown:

Yours be the produce of the foil;
O may it ftill reward your toil!

Nor ever the defenceless train

Of clinging infants, afk fupport in vain!

V.

But tho' the various harveft gild your plains,

Does the mere landschape feast your eye?
Or the warm hope of distant gains

Far other caufe of glee fupply?

Is

Is not the red-ftreak's future juice
The fource of your delight profound,
Where Ariconium pours her gems profufe,
Purpling a whole horizon round?

Athirst ye praise the limpid stream, 'tis true
But tho', the pebbled fhores among,
It mimick no unpleafing fong,

The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.
VI.

Unpleas'd ye fee the thickets bloom,
Unpleas'd the Spring her flowery robe refume;
Unmov'd the mountain's airy pile,

The dappled mead without a smile.
O let a rural confcious Mufe,

For well she knows, your froward fenfe accufe:
Forth to the folemn oak you bring the fquare,

And span the maffy trunk, before you cry, 'tis fair,
VII.

Nor yet ye learn'd, nor yet ye courtly train,

If haply from your haunts ye ftray
To waste with us a fummer's day,
Exclude the taste of every swain,
Nor our untutor'd sense disdain :

'Tis Nature only gives exclufive right
To relish her supreme delight;

.t

She, where fhe pleases kind or coy,
Who furnishes the scene, and forms us to enjoy.