With balmy breath, and flowery tread,
Rise from thy soft ambrosial bed;
Where, in Elysian slumber bound,
Embow'ring myrtles veil thee round.

Awake, in all thy glories drest!
Recall the Zephyrs from the West!
Restore the sun! revive the skies!
At mine, and Nature's call, arise!
Great Nature's self upbraids thy stay;
And misses her accustomed May.

See! all her works demand thy aid!
The labours of POMONA fade!
A plaint is heard from ev'ry tree!
Each budding flow'ret calls for thee!
The birds forget to love and sing!
With storms alone the forests ring!

Come then, with Pleasure at thy side! Diffuse thy vernal spirit wide! Create, where'er thou turn'st thy eye, Peace, Plenty, Love, and Harmony;

Till ev'ry being share its part,

And Heaven and Earth be glad at heart!

A BALLAD

IMITATION OF MARTIAL, LIB. VI. EP. 34., ON LADY [ELIZABETH] ILCHESTER ASKING LORD ILCHESTER, HOW MANY KISSES HE WOULD HAVE?

Written at Redlynch [Park, Somerset], in August 1740.

DEAR BETTY! come, give me sweet kisses!
For sweeter no Girl ever gave!

But why, in the midst of our blisses,
Do you ask me, How many I'd have?
I'm not to be stinted in pleasure,
Then, prithee, dear BETTY! be kind!
For as I love thee beyond measure,
To numbers I'll not be confined!

Count the bees that on Hybla are straying!
Count the flowers that enamel the fields!
Count the flocks that on Tempe are playing;
Or the grains that each Sicily yields!
Count how many stars are in heaven!
Go, reckon the sands on the shore!
And when so many kisses you've given;
I still shall be asking for more!

To a heart full of love, let me hold thee!

A heart that, dear BETTY! is thine!
In my arms I'll for ever enfold thee;

And curl round thy neck like a vine!
What joy can be greater than this is?
My life on thy lips shall be spent!
But those who can number their kisses,
Will always with few be content!

A SONG ON MISS HARRIET HANBURY,

ADDRESSED TO THE REV. Mr. Birt.

DEAR Doctor of St. Mary's,
In the Hundred of Bergavenny,
I've seen such a Lass,

With a shape and face

As never were matched by any.

Such wit, such bloom, and beauty,
Has this girl of Pontypool, Sir!
With eyes that would make
The toughest heart ache,

And the wisest man a fool, Sir!

At our Fair, t' other day, she appeared, Sir!
And the Welshmen all flocked and viewed her:

And all of them said,

She was fit to have been made

A Wife for OWEN TUDOR!'

They would ne'er have been tired with gazing!
And so much her charms did please, Sir!
That all of them stayed

Till their ale grew dead,

And cold was their toasted cheese, Sir!

How happy the Lord of the Manor
That shall be of her possessed, Sir!
For all must agree,

Who my HARRIET shall see,

She's a HARRIET [heriot] of the best, Sir!

Then, pray make a Ballad about her!
We know you have wit, if you'd show it.
Then don't be ashamed!

You can never be blamed;
For a Prophet is often a Poet!

'But why don't you make one yourself, then?' I suppose I, by you shall be told, Sir!

This beautiful piece,

Alas! is my niece;

And, besides, she 's but five years old, Sir!

But though, my dear friend, she 's no older;
In her face, it may plainly be seen, Sir!
That this Angel at five

Will, if she's alive,

Be a Goddess at fifteen, Sir!

AT St. Osyth's, near the Mill,
There dwells a lovely Lass.
O, had I her good will,

How sweetly life would pass !

No bold intruding care,

Our bliss should e'er annoy! Her looks can gild despair; And heighten every joy!

Like Nature's rural scene,

Her artless beauties charm!

Like them, with joy serene

Our wishing hearts they warm!

Her wit, with sweetness crowned,
Steals ev'ry sense away!
The list'ning Swains around

Forget the short'ning day!

Health, Freedom, Wealth, and Ease, Without her tasteless are!

She gives them power to please; And makes them worth our care.

Is there, ye Powers! a bliss
Reservèd for my share?
Indulgent, hear my wish;
And grant it all in her!