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Lo, the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray,
Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play!
In Delia's hand this toy is fatal found,
Nor could that fatal dart more surely wound:
Both gifts destructive to the giver prove;
Alike both lov rs fall by those they love.
Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,
At random wounds, nor knows the wound she gives:
She views the story with attentive eyes,
And pities Procris, while her lover dies.


THE GARDEN. Fain would my muse the flow'ry treasures sing And humble glories of the youthful spring ; Where o, ning roses breathing sweets diffuse, And soft carnations shower their balmy dews; Where lilies smile in virgin robes of white, The thin undress of superficial light, And varied Julips show so dazzling gay, Blushing in bright diversities of day. Each painted flow'ret in the lake below Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow; And pale Narcissus” on the bank, in vain Transformed, gazes on himself again. Here aged trees cathedral walks compose, And mount the hill in venerable rows: There the green infants in their beds are laid, The garden's hope, and its expected shade.

covert to enjoy the breeze which he would invoke with the words “ Come, gentle Air.” A gossip hearing the words, thought he called on some nymph, and went and told his wife Procris. Her jealousy was roused, and she stole into the thicket to watch him. Hearing him call on the “air,” “ Aura," which she thought a woman's name, she uttered a sob. Cephalus, thinking he heard a wild animal in the thicket, discharged a javelin at it, and heard a human cry. On hurrying to the spot, he found his beloved wife dying. She hesought him as a last request not to wed “Aura,” and thus the mistake was revealed to him.

1 Abraham Cowley was born 1618, died 1667. A moral poet, but his poems were full of conceits, and are tedious and affected.

. Narcissus, a beautiful youth who fell in love with his own image in a brook, and was transformed into the flower that bears his name.

Here orange trees with blooms and pendants shine,
And vernal honours to their autumn join ;
Exceed their promise in their ripened store,
Yet in the rising blossom promise more.
There in bright drops the crystal fountains play,
By laurels shielded from the piercing day;
Where Daphne, now a tree as once a maid,
Still from Apollo vindicates her shade,
Still turns her beauties from th' invading beam,
Nor seeks in vain for succour to the stream.
The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves,
At once a shelter from her boughs receives,
Where summer's beauty midst of winter stays,
And winter's coolness spite of summer's rays.

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WHILE Celia's tears make sorrow bright,

Proud grief sits swelling in her eyes ; The sun, next those the fairest light,

Thus from the ocean first did rise: And thus through mists we see the sun, Which else we durst not gaze upon.

These silver drops, like morning dew,

Foretell the fervour of the day:
So from one cloud soft show'rs we view

And blasting lightnings burst away.
The stars that fall from Celia's eye
Declare our doom in drawing nigh.

The baby in that sunny sphere

So like a Phaetono appears,
That heaven, the threatened world to spare,

Thought fit to drown him in her tears:
Else might the ambitious nymph aspire,

To set, like him, heav'n too on fire. i The laurel tree into which Daphne was metamorphosed when she fled from Apollo.

2 The son of Apollo, who persuading his father to let him drive the chariot of the sun, set the earth on fire.



: 1. SILENCE! coeval with eternity;

Thou wert, ere Nature's self began to be, 'Twas one vast nothing, all, and all slept fast in thee.

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Thine was the sway, ere heaven was formed, or

earth, Ere fruitful thought conceived creation's birth, Or midwife word gave aid, and spoke the infant forth.

Then various elements, against thee joined,

In one more various animal combined,
And framed the clam'rous race of busy human-kind.

IV. The tongue moved gently first, and speech was low,

Till wrangling science taught it noise and show. And wicked wit arose, thy most abusive foe.

But rebel wit deserts thee oft in vain;

Lost in the maze of words he turns again,
And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle reign.

Afflicted sense thou kindly dost set free,

Oppressed with argumental tyranny,
And routed reason finds a safe retreat in thee.

1 John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, born 1647, died 1680. He was a favourite of Charles II., and was considered a wit and clever satirical poet; but his poetry was coarse and profane, and is now happily forgotten. The only poem well known now of Rochester Is his mock epitaph written on the door of Charles II.'s bedroom

Here lies our sovereign lord the king,
Whose word no man relies on;
Who never says a foolish thing,

Nor ever does a wise one.. Charles (not inferior in wit) declared the epitaph to be true; for his words were his own, his acts those of his ministers.


With thee in private modest dulness lies,

And in thy bosom lurks in thought's disguise ; Thou varnisher of fools, and cheat of all the wise!


Yet thy indulgence is by both confest;

Folly by thee lies sleeping in the breast, And 'tis in thee at last that wisdom seeks for rest.


Silence the knave's repute, the w— 's good name,

The only honour of the wishing dame; Thy very want of tongue makes thee a kind of fame,


But couldst thou seize some tongues that now are

free, How Church and State should be obliged to thee! At senate, and at bar, how welcome wouldst thou be!


Yet speech even there, submissively withdraws,

From rights of subjects, and the poor man's cause; Then pompous silence reigns, and stills the noisy laws.

XII. Past services of friends, good deeds of foes, What favourites gain, and what the nation owes, Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose.

The country wit, religion of the town,

The courtier's learning, policy of the gown,
Are best by thee expressed ; and shine in thee alone

The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophistry,
Lord's quibble, critic's jest; all end in thee,
All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.



THOUGH Artemisia talks, by fits,
Of councils, classics, fathers, wits;

Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke: Yet in some things methinks she fails, *Twere well if she would pare her nails,

And wear a cleaner smock.

Haughty and huge as High-Dutch, bride, Such nastiness, and so much pride

Are oddly joined by fate: On her large squab you find her spread, Like a fat corpse upon a bed,

That lies and stinks in state.

She wears no colours (sign of grace)
On any part except her face ;

All white and black beside ;
Dauntless her look, her gesture proud,
Her voice theatrically loud,

And masculine her stride.

So have I seen, in black and white
A prating thing, a magpie hight,

Majestically stalk;
A stately, worthless animal,
That plies the tongue, and wags the tail,

All flutter, pride, and talk.

1 "Lord Dorset was,” says Walpole, “the finest gentleman of the voluptuous court of Charles II., and in the gloomy one of William III. He had as much wit as bis first master, or his contemporaries Bucking. nam and Rochester, without the royal want of feeling, the duke's want of principle, or the earl's want of thought. His poems have sunk to oblivion for the general public.”

: By Artemisia Pope is thougbt to have meant Queen Caroline.

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