340 POEMS. 



Might plant the mortar with wide threat'ning bore, 

 Or bid the mimic cannon seem to roar* 



Now climb the steep, drop now your eye below, 

 Where round the blooming village orchards grow ; 

 There, like a picture, lies my lowly seat, 

 A rural, sheltered, unobserv'd retreat. 



Me far above the rest Selbornian scenes, 

 The pendent forests, and the mountain-greens 

 Strike with delight ; there spreads the distant view, 

 That gradual fades till sunk in misty blue : 

 Here Nature hangs her slopy woods to sight, 

 Rills purl between and dart a quivering light. 



SELBORNE HANGER 



A WINTER PIECE. 



TO THE MISS B*****S. 



1 HE Bard, who sang so late in blithest strain 

 Selbornian prospects, and the rural reign, 

 Now suits his plaintive pipe to sadden'd tone, 

 While the blank swains the changeful year bemoan, 



