VERSES written towards the close of the Year 1748, to WILLIAM LYTTELTON, Esq; William Shenstone Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.004 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. IV. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 337-340. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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VERSES written towards the close of the Year 1748 , to WILLIAM LYTTELTON , Esq ; By the Same . HOW blithely pass'd the summer's day ! How bright was every flow'r ! While friends arriv'd , in circles gay , To visit Damon's bow'r . But now , with silent step , I range Along some lonely shore ; And Damon's bow'r , alas the change ! Is gay with friends no more . Away to crowds and cities borne In quest of joy they steer ; Whilst I , alas ! am left forlorn , To weep the parting year ! O pensive Autumn ! how I grieve Thy sorrowing face to see ! When languid suns are taking leave Of every drooping tree . Ah let me not , with heavy eye , This dying scene survey ! Haste , Winter , haste ; usurp the sky ; Compleat my bow'r's decay . Ill can I bear the motely cast Yon' sickening leaves retain ; That speak at once of pleasure past , And bode approaching pain . At home unblest , I gaze around , My distant scenes require ; Where all in murky vapours drown'd Are hamlet , hill , and spire . Tho' Thomson , sweet descriptive bard ! Inspiring Autumn sung ; Yet how should we the months regard , That stopp'd his flowing tongue ? Ah luckless months , of all the rest , To whose hard share it fell ! For sure he was the gentlest breast That ever sung so well . And see , the swallows now disown The roofs they lov'd before ; Each , like his tuneful genius , flown To glad some happier shore . The wood-nymph eyes , with pale affright , The sportsman's frantick deed ; While hounds and horns and yells unite To drown the Muse's reed . Ye fields with blighted herbage brown ! Ye skies no longer blue ! Too much we feel from fortune's frown , To bear these frowns from you . Where is the mead's unsullied green ? The zephyr's balmy gale ? And where sweet friendship's cordial mien , That brighten'd every vale ? What tho' the vine disclose her dyes , And boast her purple store ; Not all the vineyard's rich supplies Can soothe our sorrows more . He ! he is gone , whose moral strain Could wit and mirth refine ; He ! he is gone , whose social vein Surpass'd the pow'r of wine . Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise , In yon' sequester'd grove , To him a votive urn I raise ; To him , and friendly love . Yes there , my friend ! forlorn and sad , I grave your Thomson's name ; And there , his lyre ; which fate forbad To sound your growing fame . There shall my plaintive song recount Dark themes of hopeless woe ; And , faster than the dropping fount , I'll teach mine eyes to flow . There leaves , in spite of Autumn , green , Shall shade the hallow'd ground ; And Spring will then again be seen , To call forth flowers around . But no kind suns will bid me share , Once more , His social hour ; Ah Spring ! thou never canst repair This loss , to Damon's bow'r .