an ODE.
9
XII.'Twas here our Sires exulting from the Fight,Great in their bloody arms, march'd o'er the Lea,Eying their rescued Fields with proud delight;Now lost to them! and, ah how chang'd to me!
XIII.This Bank, the River, and the fanning Breeze,The dear Idea of my Pollio bring;So shone the Moon through these soft nodding Trees,When here we wander'd in the Eves of Spring.
XIV.When April's smiles the flowery Lawn adorn,And modest Cowslips deck the Streamlet's side,When fragrant Orchards to the roseate MornUnfold their Bloom, in Heaven's own Colours dy'd:
