Sonnet. the Invitation

Come, dear Melissa, come, where Craïa pours Her silver urn in murm'ring lapse serene, Near Bexley's humble fane, where ev'ry green Shall join their foliage to refresh thy bow'rs. Oft by the winding stream thy love shall stray, To lure with harmless guile the finny race; Oft too at eve, the dewy meeds he'll trace, And offer, at thy board, the speckl'd prey. Pity, I know thy gentle breast will move, For the dumb children of the teeming flood; —But they are form'd for man's delight and good, By Providence divine, and heav'nly love.

My angel come! while summer wakes the strain, And corn-flow'rs blow, and am'rous doves complain.