Sweet beaming hope her path illumine ſtill,
And fair ideas all her fancy fill.
From glittering ſcenes which ſtrike the dazzled ſight
With mimic grandeur and illuſive light,
From idle hurry, and tumultuous noiſe,
From hollow friendſhips, and from ſickly joys,
Will Delia, at the muſe's call, retire
To the pure pleaſures rural ſcenes inſpire?
Will ſhe from crowds and buſy cities fly,
Where wreaths of curling ſmoke involve the ſky,
To taste the grateful ſhade of ſpreading trees,
And drink the ſpirit of the mountain breeze?
When winter's hand the rough'ning year deforms,
And hollow winds foretel approaching ſtorms,
Then Pleaſure, like a bird of paſſage, flies
To brighter climes, and more indulgent ſkies:
Cities and courts allure her ſprightly train,
