  A Song published in Sept. 1776, under the Name of Rosalinda. When cooling zephyrs wanton play, Then oft in Pandon Dean I stray; When sore dispers’d with grief and woe, Then from a busy world I go; My mind is calm, my soul serene, Beneath the Bank in Pandon Dean. The feather’d race around me sing, They make the hills and vallies ring; My sorrow flies, my grief is gone, I warble with the tuneful throng; All, all things wear a pleasing mien, Beneath the Bank in Pandon Dean. At distance stands an ancient tower, Which ruin threatens every hour; I’m struck with reverence at the sight, I pause and gaze with fond delight; The antique walls do join the scene, And makes more lovely Pandon Dean. Above me stand the towering trees, While here I feel the gentle breeze; The water flows by chance around, And green enamels all the ground: Which gives new splendour to the scene, And adds a grace to Pandon Dean. But when I mount the rising hill, And there survey the purling rill, My eye delighted—but I mourn, To think of winter’s quick return; With withering winds and frost so keen, I sighing leave the Pandon Dean. O spare for once a female pen, And lash licentious wicked men; Your conscious cheek need never glow, If you your talents thus bestow: Scarce fifteen summers have I seen, Yet dare to sing of Pandon Dean. |
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