Now in ecstatic visions let me rove,
By Cynthia's beams, thro' Brackley's glimmering grove,
Where still each night, by startled shepherds seen,
Young Leapor's form flies shadowy o'er the green.
Those envied honours nature lov'd to pay
The briar-bound turf, where erst her Shakespear lay,
Now on her darling Mira she bestows;
There o'er the hallow'd ground she fondly strows
The choicest fragrance of the breathing spring,
And bids each year her favourite linnet sing.