POEMS. 



Luxurious knights, ill suited to defy- 

 To mortal fight Turoestan chivalry. 



Nor be the parsonage by the Muse forgot — 

 The partial bard admires his native spot ; 

 Smit with its beauties, loved, as yet a child. 

 Unconscious why, its capes, grotesque and wild. 

 High on a mound th' exalted gardens stand. 

 Beneath, deep valleys, scoop'd by Nature's hand. 

 A Cobham here, exulting in his art. 

 Might blend the general's with the gardener's part ; 

 Might fortify with all the martial trade 

 Of rampart, bastion, fosse, and palisade ; 

 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, hes my lowly seat, 

 A rural, shelter'd, unobserved retreat. 



Me far above the rest Selbomian scenes, 

 The pendent forests, and the mountaia 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. 

 Bills purl between and dart a quivering light. 



SELBOENE HANGER. 



A WINTER PIECE. TO THE MISS rfff'S. 



The bard, who sang so late in bhthest straui 

 Selbornian prospects, and the rural reign. 

 Now suits his plaintive pipe to sadden'd tone, 

 While the blank swains the changeful year bemoan. 



How fallen the glories of these feding scenes ! 

 The dusky beech resigns his vernal greens ; 

 The yeUow maple mourns in sickly hue. 

 And russet woodlands crowd the dark'ning view. 



