The angler rose, he took his rod,
He kneeled and made his prayers to God.
The living God sat overhead:
The angler tripped, the eels were fed.

With beauty, with pleasure surrounded, to languish —
To weep without knowing the cause of my anguish:
To start from short slumbers, and wish for the morning —
To close my dull eyes when I see it returning;
Sighs sudden and frequent, looks ever dejected —
Words that steal from my tongue, by no meaning connected!
Ah! say, Fellow-swains, how these symptoms befell me?
They smile, but reply not — Sure Delia will tell me!

116. Ad Cambricum .

E multis aliquos si non despexit amantes,
Si tua non fuerit rustica nata fremis?
Aut tam formosam tibi, Cambrice, non genuisses,
Aut sineres nato munere posse frui.
Castae sint facies sua quas sinit esse pudicas,
Pulchrior huic forma est quam decet esse probis.

A¤àt¤ën ╬Àx max╬▒rwn ╬▒nt╬▒cioj e╬╣h ╬▒moib╬À.
[Dionysius, Periegesis , 1186]

Celestial pow'rs! that piety regard,
From you my labours wait their last reward.

Still as she looked the iron clouds
Would part, and sunlight shone between,
But drearily strange and pale and cold.

What is that smoke that ever still
Comes rolling down that dark brown hill?

I would have touched the heavenly key
That spoke alike of bliss and thee;
I would have woke the entrancing song,*
But its words died upon my tongue;
And then I knew that entheal1 strain*
Could never speak of joy again;*
And then I felt . . .1 Or " hallowed. "

71 Tuesday, 20 November 1750

T╬┐ ¤ü╬┐don ╬▒xm╬▒zei bai╬┐n xr╬┐non. ╬©n d╬À par╬Àlqh,
Zht¤ën e¤àr╬Àseij o¤à ¤ü╬┐don, ╬▒ll╬▒ b╬▒ton.
[Gk Anthol. XI 53]

Soon fades the rose; once past the fragrant hour,
The loiterer finds a bramble for a flow'r.

The Patient Chief, who lab'ring long, arriv'd
On Britains Shore and brought with fav'ring Gods
Arts Arms and Honour to her Ancient Sons:
Daughter of Memory! from elder Time
Recall; and me, with Britains Glory fir'd,
Me, far from meaner Care or meaner Song,
Snatch to thy Holy Hill of Spotless Bay,
My Countrys Poet, to record her Fame.

Peter complains, that God has given
To his poor Babe a Life so short:
Consider Peter , he's in Heaven;
'Tis good to have a Friend at Court.