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Poems on Several Occasions

By Edward, Lord Thurlow. The Second Edition, considerably enlarged
Thurlow, Edward Hovell-Thurlow (1781-1829)

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[section]
  
[dedication]
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VERSES PREFIXED TO THE DEFENCE OF POËSY.
  
TO THE MOST NOBLE PRINCE THE DUKE OF DORSET.
  
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD HOLLAND.
  
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF GRANARD.
  
A SONG TO SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
  
HERMILDA.
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SYLVA:
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3. ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE EARL OF MOIRA, TO THE GOVERNMENT OF INDIA.
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4. A SONG, TO AMORET.
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6. A DIALOGUE OF TWO SHEPHERDS.
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8. A SONG.
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10. A SONG.
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11.
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13.
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17. TO THE VERY NOBLE, AND ACCOMPLISHED, THE LORD HOLLAND:
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18.
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20.
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21.
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22. TO A LADY:
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23.
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28.
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30. ON THE MANY ATTACKS MADE BY LATE WRITERS ON THE MEMORY OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
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31. FROM ANACREON.
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33. FROM THE ITALIAN OF DIANA SAMPIERI, OF OTRICOLI. ON A LADY BATHING.
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35. A SONG.
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36. THE FIRST PSALM.
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37. THE INDUCTION TO MY POEM, WHICH I DESIGNED TO WRITE; ENTITLED, “ENGLAND TRIUMPHANT.”
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38. THE PRAISE OF PINDAR, AND THEN OF AUGUSTUS:
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40. ON THE QUEEN'S PASSING THROUGH OTRICOLI, ON HER WAY TO ROME.
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41. ON THE QUEEN CHRISTINA'S ENTRANCE INTO OTRICOLI; DECEMBER 18, 1654.
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42. ON BEHOLDING MR. DENT'S LIBRARY, IN HERTFORD-STREET.
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45. FROM THE LATIN OF HORACE.
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46.
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47. ON MR. TODD'S EDITION OF SPENSER.
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48.
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58. THE LEGEND OF THE KNIGHT OF ILLYRIA.
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59. THE THIRD ELEGY OF THE THIRD BOOK OF TIBULLUS.
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61. FROM HORACE.
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62. FROM HORACE. THE THIRTEENTH ODE OF THE BOOK OF EPODES.

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128

10. A SONG.

[Within this soft, and silver bow'r]

Within this soft, and silver bow'r
Her gentle feet have stray'd;
Her voice made bright the Morning hour,
And sooth'd the Ev'ning shade:
'Twas here I felt love's fatal pow'r,
In blooming looks convey'd.
With wonder now I gaze around,
And see no signs of woe:
The Sun, in beauteous splendour crown'd,
Makes all the landscape glow;
And joys the race of men surround,
That no soft passion know.
132

Yes, it is even sweet to me,
But sweet with thought of her;
In ev'ry plant, and shady tree
Her image I prefer;
And here, in love, and nature free,
With Daphne still confer.
Lend me, O dove, thy fleetest wings,
Thy fleetest wings awhile,
That I may fly, where Summer springs,
And banquet on her smile:
I would not ask the bliss of kings,
Crown'd with her love the while!
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