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By Nature modell'd, by experience taught,
To know and pity every female fault :
Pleas'd e'en to hear her sex's virtues shown,
And blind to none's perfections but her own:
Whilst, humble fair! of these too few she knows,
Yet owns too many for the world's repose:
From Wit's wild petulance serenely free,
Yet blest in all that Nature can decree.
Not like a fire, which, whilst it burns, alarms;
A modest flame, that gently shines and warms:
Whose mind, in every light, can charms display,
With Wisdom serious, and with Humour gay:
Just as her eyes in each bright posture warm,
And fiercely strike, or languishingly charm :
Such are your honours-mention'd to your cost,
Those least can hear them, who deserve them most:
Yet ah! forgive-the less inventive Muse,
If e'er she sing, a copious theme must choose.

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BRING, Flora, bring thy treasures here,
The pride of all the blooming year;
And let me, thence, a garland frame,
To crown this fair, this peerless dame!

But ah! since envious Winter lours,
And Hewell meads resign their flowers,
Let art and friendship joint essay
Diffuse their flowerets in her way.

Not Nature can herself prepare A worthy wreath for Lesbia's hair, Whose temper, like her forehead, smooth, Whose thoughts and accents form'd to sooth, Whose pleasing mien, and make refin'd, Whose artless breast, and polish'd mind, From all the nymphs of plain or grove, Deserv'd and won my Plymouth's love.

ANACREONTIC. 1758.

'T WAS in a cool Aonian glade,

The wanton Cupid, spent with toi!,
Had sought refreshment from the shade,
And stretch'd him on the mossy soil.
A vagrant Muse drew nigh, and found
The subtle traitor fast asleep;
"And is it thine to snore profound,"

She said, "yet leave the world to weep? "But hush-from this auspicious hour,

The world, Iween, may rest in peace; And, robb'd of darts, and stripp'd of power, Thy peevish petulance decrease. "Sleep on, poor child! whilst I withdraw, And this thy vile artillery hide-" When the Castalian fount she saw,

And plung'd his arrows in the tide. That magic fount-ill-judging maid!

Shall cause you soon to curse the day You dar'd the shafts of Love invade,

And gave his arms redoubled sway. For in a stream so wondrous clear,

When angry Cupid searches round, Will not the radiant points appear? Will not the furtive spoils be found ?

VOL. XIII.

HOR.

Too soon they were; and every dart, Dipt in the Muse's mystic spring, Acquir'd new force to wound the heart, And taught at once to love and sing. Then farewell, ye Picrian quire,

For who will now your altars throng? From Jove we learn to swell the lyre, And Echo asks no sweeter song.

'O DE. WRITTEN 1739.

Urit spes animi credula mutui. "T WAS not by Beauty's aid alone, That Love usurp'd his airy throne, His boasted power display'd; 'Tis Kindness that secures his aim, 'Tis Hope that feeds the kindling flame, Which Beauty first convey'd.

In Clara's eyes, the lightuings view;
Her lips with all the rose's hue

Have all its sweets combin'd;

Yet vain the blush, and faint the fire,
Till lips at once, and eyes conspire

To prove the charmer kind

Though Wit might gild the tempting snare, With softest accent, sweetest air,

By Envy's self admir'd ;
If Lesbia's wit betray'd her scorn,
In vain might every Grace adorn
What every Muse inspir'd.
Thus airy Strephon tun'd his lyre-
He scorn'd the pangs of wild desire,
Which love-sick swains endure:
Resolv'd to brave the keenest dart,
Since frowns could never wound his heart,
And smiles-must ever cure,

But ah! how false these maxims prove,
How frail security from Love,

Experience hourly shows!
Love can imagin'd smiles supply,
On every charming lip and eye
Eternal sweets bestows.

In vain we trust the fair-one's eyes,
In vain the sage explores the skies,
To learn from stars his fate:
Till, led by Fancy wide astray,
He finds no planet mark his way;

Convine'd and wise-too late.

As partial to their words we prove;
Then boldly join the lists of love,

With towering hopes supplied:
See heroes, taught by doubtful shrines,
Mistook their deity's designs;
Then took the field-and died.

THE DYING KID.

HOR.

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Frewhile, in sportive circles round
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound;
From rock to rock pursue his way,
And on the fearful margin play.
Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell;
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravish'd at the sight.

She tells with what delight he stood
To trace his features in the flood;
Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze,
And then drew near again to gaze.

She tells me how with eager speed

He flew to hear my vocal reed;

And how with critic face profound, And steadfast ear, devour'd the sound. His every frolic, light as air, Deserves the gentle Delia's care; And tears bedew her tender eye, To think the playful kid must die.But knows my Delia, timely wise, How soon this blameless era flies? While violence and craft succeed; Unfair design, and ruthless deed! Soon would the vine his wounds deplore, And yield her purple gifts no more; Ah soon, eras'd from every grove Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love. No more those bowers might Strephon see, Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee; No more those beds of flowerets find, Which for thy charming brows he twin'd. Each wayward passion soon would tear His bosom, now so void of care; And, when they left his ebbing vein, What, but insipid age, remain? Then mourn not the decrees of Fate, That gave his life so short a date; And I will join thy tenderest sighs, To think that youth so swiftly flies!

SONGS,

Written chiefly between the years 1737 and 1742.
SONG I.

I TOLD my nymph, I told her true,
My fields were small, my flocks were few;
While faltering accents spoke my fear,
That Flavia might not prove sincere.
Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold,
And vagrant sheep that left my fold:
Of these she heard, yet bore to hear;
And is not Flavia then sincere ?
How chang'd by Fortune's, fickle wind,
The friends I lov'd became unkind,
She heard, and shed a generous tear;
And is not Flavia then sincere?
How, if she deign my love to bless,
My Flavia must not hope for dress :
This too she heard, and smil'd to hear;
And Flavia sure must be sincere.

Go shear your flocks, ye jovial swains,
Go reap the plenty of your plains;
Despoil'd of all which you revere,
I know my Flavia's love sincere.

SONG II.

THE LANDSCAPE.

How pleas'd within my native bowers Erewhile I pass'd the day!

Was ever scene so deck'd with flowers?
Were ever flowers so gay?

How sweetly smil'd the hill, the vale,
And all the landscape round!
The river gliding down the dale!

The hill with beeches crown'd?
But now, when urg'd by tender woes
I speed to meet my dear,

That hill and stream my zeal oppose,
And check my fond career.

No more, since Daphne was my theme,
Their wonted charms I see:

That verdant hill, and silver stream,
Divide my love and me.

SONG III.

YE gentle nymphs and generous dames,
That rule o'er every British mind;
Be sure ye sooth their amorous flames,
Be sure your laws are not unkind.
For hard it is to wear their bloom
In unremitting sighs away:
To mourn the night's oppressive gloom,
And faintly bless the rising day.
And cruel 't were a free-born swain,
A British youth, should vainly moan;
Who, scornful of a tyrant's chain,

Submits to yours, and yours alone.
Nor pointed spear, nor links of steel,

Could e'er those gallant minds subdue, Who Beauty's wounds with pleasure feel, And boast the fetters wrought by you.

SONG IV.

THE SKY-LARK. Go, tuneful bird, that gladd'st the skies, To Daphne's window speed thy way; And there on quivering pinions rise,

And there thy vocal art display. And if she deign thy notes to hear,

And if she praise thy matin song, Tell her, the sounds that sooth her ear, To Damon's native plains belong. Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd, The bird from Indian groves may shine; But ask the lovely partial maid, What are his notes compar'd to thine? Then bid her treat yon witless beau And all his flaunting race with scorn; And lend an ear to Damon's woe,

Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn.

SONG V.

Ah! ego non aliter tristes evincere morbos
Optarem, quam te sic quoque velle putem.
ON every tree, in every plain,
I trace the jovial Spring in vain;
A sickly languor veils mine eyes,
And fast my waning vigour flies.
Nor flowery plain, nor budding tree,
That smile on others, smile on me ;
Mine eyes from Death shall court repose,
Nor shed a tear before they close.
What bliss to me can seasons bring?
Or what the needless pride of Spring?
The cypress bough, that suits the bier,
Retains its verdure all the year.
"T is true, my vine so fresh and fair
Might claim a while my wonted care;
My rural store some pleasure yield;
So white a flock, so green a field!
My friends, that each in kindness vie,
Might well expect one parting sigh;
Might well demand one tender tear;
For when was Damon unsincere?

But ere I ask once more to view
Yon setting Sun his race renew,
Inform me, swains; my friends, declare,
Will pitying Delia join the prayer?

The sprightly birds, that droop'd no less
Beneath the power of rain and wind,

In every raptur'd note express
The joy I feel

when thou art kind.

SONG VIII. 1742.

WHEN Bright Roxana treads the green,
In all the pride of dress and mien;
Averse to freedom, love, and play,
The dazzling rival of the day:
None other beauty strikes mine eye,
The lilies droop, the roses die.

But when, disclaiming art, the fair
Assumes a soft engaging air;
Mild as the opening morn of May,
Familiar, friendly, free, and gay;
The scene improves, where'er she goes,
More sweetly smile the pink and rose.
O lovely maid! propitious hear,
Nor deem thy shepherd insincere;
Pity a wild illusive fla'ne,
That varies objects still the same;"
And let their very changes prove i
The never-varied force of love.

SONG VI.

THE ATTRIBUTE OF VENUS.

YES; Fulvia is like Venus fair;
Has all her bloom, and shape, and air:
But still, to perfect every grace,
She wants the smile upon her face.
The crown majestic Juno wore,
And Cynthia's brow the crescent bore,
A helmet mark'd Minerva's mien,
But smiles distinguish'd Beauty's queen.
Her train was form'd of Smiles and Loves,
Her chariot drawn by gentlest doves;
And from her zone the nymph may find,
'T is Beauty's province to be kind.
Then smile, my fair; and all whose aim
Aspires to paint the Cyprian dame,
Or bid her breathe in living stone,
Shall take their forms from you alone.

SONG VII. 1744.

THE lovely Delia smiles again;
That killing frown has left her brow:
Can she forgive my jealous pain,

And give me back my angry vow?
Love is an April's doubtful day:

A while we see the tempest lower; Anon the radiant heaven survey,

And quite forget the flitting shower. The flowers, that hung their languid head, Are burnish'd by the transient rains; The vines their wonted tendrils spread, And double verdure gilds the plains.

SONG IX. 1743.
VALENTINE'S DAY.

Tis said that under distant skies,
Nor you the fact deny,
What first attracts an indian's eyes
Becomes his deity.
Perhaps a lily, or a rose,

That shares the morning's ray,
May to the waking swain disclose
The regent of the day.
Perhaps a plant in yonder grove,

Enrich'd with fragrant power,
May tempt his vagrant eyes to rove

Where blooms the sovereign flower.
Perch'd on the cedar's topmost bough,
And gay with gilded wings,
Perchance, the patron of his vow,
Some artless linnet sings.

The swain surveys her pleas'd, afraid,
Then low to earth he bends;
Ard owns, upon her friendly aid,
His health, his life, depends.
Vain futile idols, bird or flower,

To tempt a votary's prayer!
How would his humble homage tower,
Should he behold my fair!
Yes-might the Pagan's waking eyes

O'er Flavia's beauty range,
He there would fix his lasting choice,
Nor dare, nor wish to change.

SONG X. 1743.

THE fatal hours are wondrous near, That from these fountains bear my dear;

A little space is given; in vain :
She robs my sight, and shuns the plain.

A little space, for me to prove
My boundless flame, my endless love;"
And, like the train of vulgar hours,
Invidious Time that space devours.
Near yonder beech is Delia's way,
On that I gaze the livelong day;
No Eastern monarch's dazzling pride
Shall draw my longing eyes aside.

The chief that knows of succours nigh,
And sees his mangled legions die,
Casts not a more impatient glance,
To see the loitering aids advance.
Not more, the school-boy that expires
Far from his native home, requires
To see some friend's familiar face,
Or meet a parent's last embrace-

She comes-but ah! what crowds of beaux
In radiant bands my fair enclose!

Oh! better hadst thou shunn'd the green,
Oh, Delia! better far unseen.

Methinks, by all my tender fears,
By all my sighs, by all my tears,
I might from torture now be free-

'T is more than death to part from thee!

Unmov'd, should Eastern kings advance,

Could I the pageant see:

Splendour might catch one scornful glance, Not steal one thought from thee.

SONG XIII

THE SCHOLAR'S RELAPSE.

By the side of a grove, at the foot of a hill,
Where whisper'd the beech, and where murmur'd
the rill;

I vow'd to the Muses my time and my care,
Since neither could win me the smile of my fair.

Free I rang'd like the birds, like the birds free I [tongue;

sung, And Delia's lov'd name scarce escap'd from my But if once a smooth accent delighted my ear,

I should wish, unawares, that my Delia might hear.
With fairest ideas my bosom I stor'd,
Allusive to none but the nymph I ador'd;
And the more I with study my fancy refin'd,
The deeper impressions she made on my mind.
So long as of Nature the charms I pursue,
I still must my Delia's dear image renew:
The Graces have yielded with Delia to rove,
And the Muses are all in alliance with Love.

SONG XI. 1744.

PERHAPS it is not love, said I,
That melts my soul when Flavia 's nigh ;
Where wit and sense like hers agree,
One may be pleas'd, and yet be free.

The beauties of her polish'd mind,
It needs no lover's eye to find;
The hermit, freezing in his cell,
Might wish the gentle Flavia well.

It is not love-averse to bear
The servile chain that lovers wear;
Let, let me all my fears remove,
My doubts dispel-it is not love—
Oh! when did wit so brightly shine
In any form less fair than thine?
It is it is love's subtle fire,
And under Friendship lurks Desire.

SONG XII. 1744.

O'ER desert plains, and rushy meers,
And wither'd heaths, I rove;
Where tree, nor spire, nor cot appears,
I pass to meet my love.

But though my path were damask'd o'er
With beauties e'er so fine;
My busy thoughts would fly before,
To fix alone on thine.

No fir-crown'd hills could give delight,
No palace please mine eye:
No pyramid's aerial height,

Where mouldering monarchs lie.

SONG XIV.

THE ROSE-BUD.
SEE, Daphne, see," Florelio cried,
"And learn the sad effects of pride;
Yon shelter'd rose, how safe conceal'd!
How quickly blasted, when reveal'd!
"The Sun with warm attractive rays
Tempts it to wanton in the blaze:
A gale succeeds from eastern skies,
And all its blushing radiance dies.
"So you, my fair, of charms divine,
Will quit the plains, too fond to shine,
Where Fame's transporting rays allure,
Though here more happy, more secure.
"The breath of some neglected maid
Shall make you sigh you left the shade;
A breath to Beauty's bloom unkind,
As, to the rose, an eastern wind."

The nymph replied-" You first, my swain,
Confine your sonnets to the plain;
One envious tongue alike disarms,
You of your wit, me of my charms.
"What is, unknown, the poet's skill?
Or what, unheard, the tuneful thrill?
What, unadmir'd, a charming mien,
Or what the rose's blush, unseen?"

SONG XV.
WINTER. 1746.

No more, ye warbling birds, rejoice:
Of all that cheer'd the plain,
Echo alone preserves her voice,
And she-repeats my pain.

Where'er my love-sick limbs I lay,

To shun the rushing wind, Its busy murmurs seem to say, "She never will be kind!" The Naiads, o'er their frozen urns, In icy chains repine; And each in sullen silence mourns Her freedom lost, like mine! Soon will the Sun's returning rays The cheerless frost control; When will relenting Delia chase The winter of my soul?

SONG XVI.

DAPHNE'S VISIT.

YE birds! for whom I rear'd the grove,
With melting lay salute my love:
My Daphne with your notes detain:
Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.
Ye flowers! before her footsteps rise;
Display at once your brightest dyes;
That she your opening charms may see:
Or what were all your charms to me?
Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flower,
And shed its odours round my bower:
Or never more, O gentle wind,
Shall I, from thee, refreshment find.
Ye streams' if e'er your banks I lov'd,
If e'er your native sounds improv'd,
May each soft murmur sooth my fair!
Or, oh! 't will deepen my despair.

And thou, my grot! whose lonely bounds
The melancholy pine surrounds,
May Daphne praise thy peaceful gloom!
Or thou shalt prove her Damon's tomb.

Averse to freedom, mirth, and play,
The lofty rival of the day;
Methinks, to my enchanted eye,
The lilies droop, the roses die.
But when, disdaining art, the fair
Assumes a soft engaging air;
Mild as the opening morn of May,
And as the feather'd warblers gay:
The scene improves where'er she goes,
More sweetly smile the pink and rose.
O lovely maid! propitious hear,
Nor think thy Damon insincere.
Pity my wild delusive flame:

For though the flowers are still the same,
To me they languish, or improve,
And plainly tell me that I love.

SONG XIX.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

YES, these are the scenes where with Iris I stray'd,
But short was her sway for so lovely a maid!
In the bloom of her youth to a cloister she run;
In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove
So fatal to beauty, so killing to love!

Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs, and the
plains;
[pains;
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my
How many soft moments I spent in this grove!
How fair was my nymph, and how fervent my love!
Be still though, my heart! thine emotion give o'er;
Remember, the season of love is no more.

With her how I stray'd amid fountains and bowers,
Or loiter'd behind and collected the flowers;
Then breathless with ardour my fair one pursu'd,
And to think with what kindness my garland she
view'd!

But be still, my fond heart! this emotion give o'er,
Fain wouldst thou forget thou must love her no more.

SONG XVII.

WRITTEN IN A COLLECTION OF BACCHANALIAN SONGS.

ADIEU, ye jovial youths, who join
To plunge old Care in floods of wine;
And, as your dazzled eye-balls roll,
Discern him struggling in the bowl.
Not yet is Hope so wholly flown,
Not yet is Thought so tedious grown,
But limpid stream and shady tree
Retain, as yet, some sweets for me.
And see through yonder silent grove,
See yonder does my Daphne rove;
With pride her footsteps I pursue,
And bid her frantic joys adieu.
The sole confusion I admire,

Is that my Daphne's eyes inspire:
I scorn the madness you approve,
And value reason next to love.

A PARODY.

WHEN firs', Philander, first I came
Where Avon rolls his winding stream,

The nymphs-how brisk! the swains-how gay!
To see Asteria, queen of May!

The parsons round, her praises sung!—
The steeples, with her praises rung

I thought--no sight that e'er was seen,
Could match the sight of Barel's green!—

But now, since old Eugenio died-
The chief of poets, and the pride-
Now, meaner bards in vain aspire
To raise their voice, to tune their lyre!
Their lovely season, now, is o'er!
Thy notes, Florelio, please no more!
No more Asteria's smiles are seen!-
Adieu!-the sweets of Barel's green!

SONG XVIII.

WHEN bright Ophelia treads the green, In all the pride of dress and mien;

THE HALCYON. WHY O'er the verdant banks of Ooze Does yonder halcyon speed so fast?

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