A CARD FROM THE AUTHOR, ΤΟ DAVID GARRICK, ES2. REMOTENESS of situation, and some other circumstances, have hitherto deprived the author of that happiness he might receive from seeing Mr. Garrick. It may 'Tis the universal regard his character commands, occasions this address. be thought by many, (at a visit so abrupt as this is) that something highly complimentary should be said on the part of the intruder; but according to the ideas the author has conceived of Mr. Garrick's delicacy and good sense, a single period in the garb of flattery would certainly offend him. He therefore takes his leave ;-and after having stept (perhaps a little too forward) to offer his tribute of esteem, respectfully retires. NEWCASTLE, Aug. 1771. Close to Partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock!) Jocund that the morning's nigh. Swiftly from the mountain's brow, Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire: And the peeping sun-beam, now, Paints with gold the village spire. Philomel forsakes the thorn, Plaintive where she prates at night; And the lark, to meet the morn, Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. From the low-roof'd cottage ridge, See the chatt'ring swallow spring; Darting through the one-arch'd bridge, Quick she dips her dappled wing. Now the pine-tree's waving top Gently greets the morning gale: Kidlings, now, begin to crop Daisies, in the dewy dale. From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd, (Restless till her task be done) Now the busy bee's employ'd Sipping dew before the Sun. Trickling through the crevic'd rock, Where the limpid stream distills, Sweet refreshment waits the flock When 'tis sun-drove from the hills, Colin, for the promis'd corn (Ere the harvest hopes are ripe) Anxious, hears the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drown his pipe. Sweet,-O sweet, the warbling throng, On the white emblossom'd spray! Nature's universal song Echoes to the rising day. NOON. FERVID On the glitt'ring flood, Not a dew-drop's left the rose. By the brook the shepherd dines; Now the flock forsakes the glade, By the ivy'd abbey wall. Echo in her airy round, O'er the river, rock, and hill, Cannot catch a single sound, Save the clack of yonder mill. Cattle court the zephyrs bland, But from mountain, dell, or stream, Not a leaf has leave to stir, Nature's lull'd-serene-and still! Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur, Sleeping on the hearth-clad hill, |