But the rude thiftle rear'd its hoary crown,

5

And the ripe nettle fhew'd an irksom brown.
In mournful plight the tarnish'd groves appear,
And nature weeps for the declining year.
The fun too quickly reach'd the western sky,
And rifing vapours hid his ev'ning eye:
Autumnal threads around the branches flew,
While the dry ftubble drank the falling dew.
In this fick feafon, at the clofe of day,
On Lydia's lap pale Colinetta lay;
Whofe fallow cheeks had loft their rofy dye,

The fparkles languifh'd in her clofing eye.

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Parch'd were thofe lips whence mufick us'd to flow,
Nor more the flute her weary fingers know,

Yet thrice to raise her feeble voice fhe try'd,
Thrice on her tongue the fainting numbers dy'd;
At laft reviv'd, on Lydia's neck the hung,
And like the fwan expiring thus fhe fung.

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Farewel, ye forefts and delightful hills, Ye flow'ry meadows, and ye crystal rills, Ye friendly groves to whom we us'd to run, And beg a fhelter from the burning fun. Those blafted fhades all mournful now I fee, Who droop their heads as tho' they wept for me. The penfive linnet has forgot to fing,

The lark is filent till returning fpring.

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The fpring fhall all thofe wonted charms reftore, Which Colinetta muft behold no more.

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Farewel, ye fields; my native fields, adieu, Whose fertile lays my early labours knew ; Where, when an infant, I was wont to stray, And gather king-cups at the clofing day. How oft has Lydia told a mournful tale, By the clear lake that fhines in yonder vale; When she had done I fung a chearful lay, While the glad goldfinch liften'd on the spray: 40 Lur'd by my fong each jolly fwain drew near, And rofy virgins throng'd around to hear: Farewel, ye fwains; ye rofy nymphs adieu : Tho' I (unwilling) leave the ftreams and you, Still may foft mufick blefs your happy fhore, But Colinetta you must hear no more.

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O Lydia, thou, (if wayward tongues fhou'd blame My life, and blot a harmless maiden's name) Tell them if e'er I found a ftraggling ewe, Although the owner's name I hardly knew, I fed it kindly with my father's hay, And gave it shelter at the clofing day:

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I never ftole young pigeons from their dams,
Nor from their pafture drove my neighbours lambs:
Nor fet my dog to hunt their flocks away,

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That mine might graze upon the vacant lay.

When Phillida by dancing won the prize,
Or Colin prais'd young Mariana's eyes,
When Damon wedded Urs'la of the grange,

My cheek with envy ne'er was feen to change: 60

When-e'er I faw Aminda cross the plain,
Or walk the foreft with her darling fwain,
I never whisper'd to a stander-by,
But hated scandal, and abhor'd a lye.
On Sundays I (as fifter Sue can tell)

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Was always ready for the sermon-bell :
I honour'd both the teacher and the day;
Nor us'd to giggle when he bid me pray :
Then fure for me there's fomething good in store,
When Colinetta shall be feen no more.

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When I am gone, I leave to fifter Sue
My gown of Jersey, and my aprons blue.
My ftudded sheep-hook Phillida may take,
Likewise my hay-fork and my hazel rake:
My hoarded apples, and my winter pears,
Be thine, O Lydia, to reward thy cares.
These nuts that late were pluck'd from yonder tree,
And this ftraw-basket, I bequeath to thee:
That basket did thefe dying fingers weave:
My boxen flute to Corydon I leave,

So fhall it charm the lift'ning nymphs around,
For none like him can make it sweetly found.

80

In our churchyard there grows a spreading yew, Whose dark green leaves distil a baneful dew: Be those sad branches o'er my grave reclin'd, 85 And let these words be graven on the rind : "Mark, gentle reader,-Underneath this tree, "There fleeps a maid, old Simon's daughter fhe:

"Thou too, perhaps, ere many weeks be o'er, "Like Colinetta, fhalt be seen no more."

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Here ends the maid-for now the feal of death Clos'd her pale lips, and ftop'd her rofy breath. Her finking eye balls took their long adieu, And with a figh her harmless spirit flew.

THE ATHEIST AND THE ACORN.

BY ANNE COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA.

METHINKS
ETHINKS this world is oddly made,
And ev'ry thing's amifs,

A dull prefuming atheift faid,

As ftretch'd he lay beneath a fhade;

And inftanced in this:

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*

Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing,
A pumpkin, large and round,

Is held but by a little ftring,
Which upwards cannot make a fpring,

Or bear it from the ground.

Whilft on this oak, a fruit fo fmall,
So difproportion'd, grows,

That, who with fence furveys this All,
This univerfal cafual ball,

Its ill contrivance knows.

My better judgment wou'd have hung

That weight upon a tree,

And left this maft, thus flightly ftrung,

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Daughter of fir William Kingsmill, and wife to He

neage earl of Winchilfea. Born 16..; dyed 1720.