Public Poetry. Wentworth Dillon.

THE
GROVE.

Ah happy Grove! Dark and secure retreat,

Of Sacred silence, Rest's Eternal Seat;

How well your cool and unfrequented shade

Suits with the chaste retirements of a Maid.

Oh! If kind Heav'n had been so much my friend,

To make my Fate upon my choice depend;

All my ambition I would here confine,

And only this Elyzium should be mine.

Fond Men by Passion wilfully betray'd,

Adore those Idols which their fancy made;

​
Purchasing Riches, with our time and care,

We lose our freedom in a gilded Snare;

And having all, all to our selves, refuse,

Opprest with Blessings which we fear to use.

Fame is at best but an inconstant good,

Vain are the boasted Titles of our Blood;

We soonest lose what we most highly prise,

And with our Youth our short-liv'd Beauty dies.

In vain our Fields and Flocks increase our store,

If our abundance makes us wish for more.

How happy is the harmless Country Maid,

Who rich by Nature, scorns superfluous aid!

Whose modest Cloaths no wanton eyes invite,

But like her Soul, preserves the Native White;

Whose little store, her well-taught Mind does please,

Not pinch'd with want, nor cloyd with wanton ease,

Who free from Storms, which on the Great Ones fall,

Makes but few Wishes, and enjoys them all;

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No care but Love can discompose her Breast,

Love, of all Cares the sweetest and the best.

Whil'st on sweet Grass her bleating Charge does lie,

Our happy Lover feeds upon her eye;

Not one on whom or Gods or Men impose,

But one whom Love has for this Lover chose,

Under some favourite Myrtle's shady Boughs,

They speak their Passions in repeated Vows:

And whilst a Blush confesses how she burns,

His faithful heart makes as sincere returns.

Thus in the Arms of Love and Peace they lie,

And whilst they Live, their flames can never die