Fly, fly, profane fogs! far hence fly away, Taint not the pure streams of the springing day With your dull influence; it is for you
To sit and scowl upon night's heavy brow; Not on the fresh cheeks of the virgin morn, Where nought but smiles and ruddy joys are worn. Fly, then, and do not think with her to stay; Let it suffice, she'll wear no mask to-day.
UPON THE FAIR ETHIOPIAN SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN.
Lo! here the fair Chariclia! in whom strove
So false a fortune, and so true a love.
Now, after all her toils by sea and land,
Oh, may she but arrive at your white hand! Her hopes are crown'd, only she fears that then She shall appear true Ethiopian.
I WOULD be married, but I'd have no wife; I would be married to a single life.
WHAT succour can I hope the Muse will send Whose drowsiness hath wrong'd the Muse's friend?
What hope, Aurora, to propitiate thee,
Unless the Muse sing my apology?
Oh, in that morning of my shame! when I Lay folded up in sleep's captivity,
How at the sight didst thou draw back thine eyes Into thy modest vail! How didst thou rise Twice dyed in thine own blushes, and did'st run To draw the curtains, and awake the Sun! Who, rousing his illustrious tresses, came, And seeing the loathed object, hid for shame His head in thy fair bosom, and still hides Me from his patronage; I pray, he chides: And pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me take My own Apollo, try if I can make His Lethe be my Helicon: and see If Morpheus have a Muse to wait on me. Hence 'tis my humble fancy finds no wings, No nimble raptures starts to Heaven, and brings Enthusiastic flames, such as can give Marrow to my plump genius, make it live Dress'd in the glorious madness of a Muse, Whose feet can walk the milky way, and choose Her starry throne; whose holy heats can warm The grave, and hold up an exalted arm To lift me from my lazy urn, and climb Upon the stooped shoulders of old Time; And trace Eternity-But all is dead, All these delicious hopes are buried In the deep wrinkles of his angry brow, Where Mercy cannot find them; but, O thou Bright Lady of the morn! pity doth lie So warm in thy soft breast it cannot die: Have mercy then, and when he next shall rise Oh meet the angry god, invade his eyes, And stroke his radiant cheeks! one timely kiss Will kill his anger, and revive my bliss;
So to the treasure of thy pearly dew,
Thrice will I pay three tears, to show how true My grief is; so my wakeful lay shall knock At th' oriental gates; and duly mock
The early lark's shrill orisons to be An anthem at the day's nativity.
And the same rosy-finger'd hand of thine, That shuts Night's dying eyes, shall open mine.
But thou, faint god of sleep, forget that I Was ever known to be thy votary.
No more my pillow shall thine altar be, Nor will I offer any more to thee Myself a melting sacrifice; I'm born
Again a fresh child of the buxom morn,
Heir of the Sun's first beams; why threat'st thou so? Why dost thou shake thy leaden sceptre? Go,
Bestow thy poppy upon wakeful woe,
Sickness and sorrow, whose pale lids ne'er know Thy downy finger; dwell upon their eyes, Shut in their tears; shut out their miseries.
1 Love, brave Virtue's younger brother, Erst hath made my heart a mother; She consults the conscious spheres, To calculate her young son's years. She asks if sad, or saving powers, Gave omen to his infant hours; She asks each star that then stood by, If poor Love shall live or die.
Are these the beams that rule thy day? Thou know'st a face in whose each look, Beauty lays ope Love's fortune-book, On whose fair revolutions wait
Th' obsequious motions of Love's fate; Ah! my heart, her eyes and she Have taught thee new astrology. Howe'er Love's native hours were set, Whatever starry synod met, 'Tis in the mercy of her eye, If poor Love shall live or die.
3 If those sharp rays, putting on
Points of death, bid Love begone, (Though the Heavens in council sate, To crown an uncontrolled fate, Though their best aspects twined upon The kindest constellation,
Cast am'rous glances on his birth, And whisper'd the confed'rate earth To pave his paths with all the good That warms the bed of youth and blood,) Love has no plea against her eye; Beauty frowns, and Love must die.
4 But if her milder influ'nce move,
And gild the hopes of humble Love: (Though Heaven's inauspicious eye Lay black on Love's nativity; Though ev'ry diamond in Jove's crown Fix'd his forehead to a frown,) Her eye a strong appeal can give, Beauty smiles, and Love shall live.
5 Oh! if Love shall live, oh! where But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breast, or in her breath, Shall I hide poor Love from death? For in the life ought else can give, Love shall die although he live.
6 Or if Love shall die, oh! where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breath, or in her breast, Shall I build his fun'ral nest?
While Love shall thus entombed lie, Love shall live, although he die.
IN THE PRAISE OF THE SPRING.
ALL trees, all leafy groves confess the spring
Their gentlest friend; then, then the lands begin
To swell with forward pride and seed desire
To generation; heaven's almighty sire Melts on the bosom of his love, and pours Himself into her lap in fruitful showers, And by a soft insinuation, mixt
With earth's large mass, doth cherish and assist Her weak conceptions; no lone shade, but rings With chatting birds' delicious murmurings. Then Venus' mild instinct (at set times) yields The herds to kindly meetings, then the fields (Quick with warm zephyrs' lively breath) lay forth Their pregnant bosoms in a fragrant birth;
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