THE 



ENGLISH GARDEN. 



BOOK THE THIRD. 



CL O S 'D is that curious ear, by Death's cold hand, 

 That mark'd each* error of my carelefs flrain 

 With kind feverity ; to whom my Mufe 

 Still lov'd to whifper, what me meant to fmg 

 In louder accent ; to whofe tafle fupreme 5 



She firfl and laft appeal'd, nor wifh'd for praife, 

 Save when his fmile was herald to her fame. 

 Yes, thou art gone j yet Friendfhip's fault'ring tongue 

 Invokes thee Hill ; and Itill, by Fancy footh'd, 

 Fain would me hope her GRAY attends the call. 10 



A Why 



