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. 



The Bard, who sang so late in blithest strain 

 S&lbomian prospects, and the rural reign. 

 Now suits his plaintive pipe to sadden'd tone. 

 While the blank swains the changeful year bemoan. 



