FRANCIS FAWKES.

1721,-1777.

A Clergyman who was not one of the "righteous overmuch," and translated some of the minor Greek Poets respectably.

An Autumnal Ode.

YET once more, glorious god of day,
While beams thine orb serene,

O let me warbling court thy stay
To gild the fading scene!

Thy rays invigorate the spring,

Bright summer to perfection bring,

The cold, inclement days of winter chear,

And make th' Autumnal months the mildest of the

year,

Ere yet the russet foliage fall,

I'll climb the mountain's brow,

My friend, my Hayman, at thy call,
To view the scene below:

How sweetly pleasing to behold

Forests of vegetable gold!

How mix'd the many checker'd shades between

The tawny mellowing hue, and the gay vivid green,

How splendid all the sky! how still!

How mild the dying gale!

How soft the whispers of the rill,
That wind along the dale!

So tranquil Nature's works appear,

It seems the sabbath of the year;

As if, the summer's labour past, she chose

This season's sober calm for blandishing repose.

Such is a well spent life, the time

When busy days are past,

Man verging gradual from his prime,

Meets sacred peace at last:

His flowery spring of pleasures o'er,

And Summer's full blown pride no more,

He gains pacific Autumn, meek and bland,

And dauntless braves the stroke of Winter's palsy'd hand.

For yet a while, a little while,

Involved in wintery gloom,

And lo! another Spring shall smile,

A Spring eternal bloom;

Then shall he shine, a glorious guest,

In the bright mansions of the blest,

Where due rewards on Virtue are bestow'd,

And reap the golden fruits of what his Autumn sow'd.

A Vernal Ode.

Sent to his Grace the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, March 12, 1754.

BRIGHT God of day, whose genial power

Revives the buried seed,

That spreads with foliage every bower,

With verdure every mead,

Bid all thy vernal breezes fly,

Diffusing mildness thro' the sky;

Give the soft Season to our drooping plains,

Sprinkled with rosy dews, and salutary rains.

Enough has Winter's hand severe
Hurl'd all his terrors round,

Chill'd the fair dawning of the year,
And whiten'd all the ground:
Give but thy vital beams to play,

The frozen scenes will melt away;

And, mix'd in sprightly dance, the blooming hours, Will 'wake the drowsy Spring, and Spring awake the flowers.

Let Health, gay daughter of the skies,

On Zephyr's wings descend,

And scatter pleasures as she flies

Where Surry's downs extend;

There Herring wooes her friendly power,

There may all her roses shower,

To heal that shepherd all her balms employ,

So will she sooth our fears, and give a nation joy.

Ah me! that Virtue's godlike friends

So soon are claim'd by fate!

Lo! Pelham to the grave descends,

The bulwark of the state:

*The Right Honourable Henry Pelham Esq. died on the 6th of March, 1754.

When will fair Truth his equal find

Among the best of human-kind?

Long be the fatal day with mourning kept!

Augustus sigh'd sincere, and all the worthy wept.

Thy delegate, kind heaven, restore

To health, and safely keep;
Let good Augustus sigh no more,
No more the worthy weep:

And still upon the royal head

The riches of thy blessings shed:

Establish'd with his counsellors around,

Long be his prosperous reign, and all with glory

crown'd.

The Birth Day of Folly, an Heroi-Comical Poem. Now dawns the day to Folly ever dear, And deem'd by her the fairest of the year, April's first morn, distinguish'd for her birth; To sloth she gives the day, the night to mirth. Her herald, Lauder, vehement and loud, Brays out this proclamation to the crowd: