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By Nature modell’d, by experience taught, Tco soon they were ; and every dart,
Dipt in the Muse's mystic spring,
And taught at once to love and sing.
For who will now your altars throng?
Prom Jove we learn to swell the lyre,
And Echo asks no sweeter song.
Urit spes animi credula mutui, HOR,
That Love usurp'd his airy throne,
His boasted power display'd;
'Tis Hope that feeds the kindling flame, FRITTEN IN A FLOWER-BOOK OF MY OWN COLOURING,
Which Beauty first convey'd. DESIGNED FOR LADY PLYMOUTH. 1753-4. In Clara's eyes, the lightnings view; Debitæ nymphis opifex coronæ. Hor.
Her lips with all the rose's hue
Have all its sweets combin'd; Bring, Flora, bring thy treasures here,
Yet vain the blush, and faint the fire, The pride of all the blooming year;
Till lips at once, and eyes conspire
To prove the charmer kind
Though Wit might gild the tempting snare,
With softest accent, sweetest air, Let art and friendship joint essay
By Envy's self admir'd; Diffuse their fiowerets in her way.
If Lesbia's wit betray'd her scorn, Not Nature can herself prepare
In vain might every Grace adorn
What every Muse inspir'd.
Which love-sick swains endure:
Resolv'd to brave the keenest dart, From all the nymphs of plain or grove,
Since frowns could never wound his heart,
And smiles-must ever cure.
How frail security from Love,
Experience hourly shows! 'T was in a cool Aonian glade,
Love can imagin'd smiles supply, The wanton Cupid, spent with toil,
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 bis fate: “ And is it thine to snore profound,”
Till, led by Fancy wide astray,
He finds no planet mark his way; She said, " yet leave the world to weep?
Convinc'd and wise--too late. “ But bush--from this auspicious hour, The world, Ideen, may rest in peace;
As partial to their words we prove; And, robb’d of darts, and stripp'd of power,
Then boldly join the lists of love,
With towering hopes supplied : Thy peevish petulance decrease.
See heroes, taught by doubtful shrines, “ Sleep on, poor child! whilst I withdraw,
Mistook their deity's designs; And this thy vile artillery hide_"
Then took the field-and died. When the Castalian fount she saw,
And plung'd his arrows in the tide.
THE DYING KID,
Optima quæque dies miseris mortalibus ævi And gave bis arms redoubled sway,
VIRG. For in a stream so wondrous clear,
A Tear bedews my Delia's eye, When angry Cupid searches round,
To think yon playful kid must die; Will, not the radiant points appear?
From crystal spring, and flowery mead, Will not the furtive spoils be found ?
Must, in his prime of life, recede ! VOL. XIIL
Erewhile, in sportive circles round
Go shear your flocks, ye jovial swains, She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound;
Go reap the plenty of your plains; From rock to rock pursue his way,
Despoild of all which you revere,
I know my Flavia's love sincere.
THE LANDSCAPE. She tells with what delight he stood
How pleas'd within my native bowers To trace his features in the flood;
Erewbile I pass'd the day !
Was ever scene so deck'd with flowers ?
Were ever flowers so gay? She tells me how with eager speed
How sweetly smil'd the hill, the vale, He flew to hear my vocal reed; And how with critic face profound,
And all the landscape round! And steadfast ear, devour'd the sound.
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, And tears bedew her tender eye,
That hill and stream my zeal oppose, To think the playful kid must die..
And check my fond career. But knows my Delia, timely wise,
No more, since Daphne was my theme, How soon this blameless era flies? While violence and craft succeed;
Their wonted charms I see:
That verdant hill, and silver stream, Unfair design, and ruthless deed!
Divide my love and me.
Ye gentle nymphs and generous dames, Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee;
That rule o'er every British mind; No more those beds of flowerets find,
Be sure ye sooth their amorous flames, Which for thy charming brows he twin'd.
Be sure your laws are not unkind. Each wayward passion soon would tear
For hard it is to wear their bloom His bosom, now so void of care;
In unremitting sighs away : And, when they left his ebbing vein,
To mourn the night's oppressive gloom, What, but insipid age, remain ?
And faintly bless the rising day. Then mourn not the decrees of Fate,
And cruel 't were a free-born swain, That gave his life so short a date;
A British youth, should vainly moan; And I will join thy tenderest sighs,
Who, scornful of a tyrant's chain, To think that youth so swiftly flies !
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.
THE SKY-LARK. I Told my nymph, I told her true,
Go, tuneful bird, that gladd'st the skies, My fields were small, my flocks were few;
To Daphne's window speed thy way; While faltering accents spoke my fear,
And there on quivering pinions rise, That Flavia might not prove sincere.
And th-re thy vocal art display. Of crops destroy'd bv vernal cold,
And if she deign thy notes to hear, And vagrant sheep that left my fold:
And if she praise thy matin song, Of these she heard, yet bore to hear;
Tell her, the sounds that sooth her ear, And is not Flavia then sincere ?
To Damon's native plains belong. How chang'd by Fortune's fickle wind,
Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd, The friends I lov'd became unkind,
The bird from Indian groves may shine; She heard, and shed a generous tear;
But ask the lovely partial maid, And is not Flavia then sincere?
What are his notes compard to thine ? How, if she deign my love to bless,
Then bid her treat yon witless beau My Flavia must not hope for dress ;
And all his flaunting race with scorn; This too she heard, and smil'd to hear;
And lend an ear to Damon's woe, And Flavia sure must be sincere,
Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn.
| The sprightly birds, that droop'd no less Ah! ego non aliter tristes evincere morbos
Beneath the power of rain and wind, Optarem, quam te sic quoque velle putem. | In every raptur'd note express On every tree, in every plain,
The joy I feel —when thou art kind.
SONG VIII. 1742.
WHEN Bright Roxana treads the green, Mine eyes from Death shall court repose,
In all the pride of dress and mien; Nor shed a tear before they close.
Averse to freedom, love, and play,
The dazzling rival of the day: What bliss to me can seasons bring ?
None other beauty strikes mine eye,
The lilies droop, the roses die.
But when, disclaiming art, the fair
Assumes a soft engaging air; 'T is true, my vine so fresh and fair
Mild as the opening morn of May, Might claim a while my wonted care;
Familiar, friendly, free, and gay; My rural store some pleasure yield;
The scene improves, where'er she goes, So white a flock, so green a field !
More sweetly smile the pink and rose. My friends, that each in kindness vie,
O lovely maid! propitious hear, Might well expect one parting sigh;
Nor deem thy shepherd insincere; Might well demand one tender tear;
Pity a wild illusive flame, For when was Damon unsincere?
That varies objects still the same; But ere I ask once more to view
And let their very changes prove
The never-varied force of love.
SONG IX. 1743.
Tis said that under distant skies,
Nor you the fact deny,
What first attracts an Indian's eyes Has all her bloom, and shape, and air:
Becomes his deity. But still, to perfect every grace,
Perhaps a lily, or a rose, She wants—the smile upon her face.
That shares the morning's ray, The crown majestic Juno wore,
May to the waking swain disclose And Cynthia's brow the crescent bore,
The regent of the day. A helmet mark'd Minerva's mien,
Perhaps a plant in yonder grove, But smiles distinguish'd Beauty's queen.
Enrich'd with fragrant power, Her train was form'd of Smiles and Loves,
May tempt his vagrant eyes to move Her chariot drawn by gentlest doves;
Where blooms the sovereign flowcr. And from her zone the nymph may find,
Perch'd on the cedar's topmost bough, 'T is Beauty's province to be kind.
And gay with gilded wings, Then smile, my fair; and all whose aim
Perchance, the patron of his vow, Aspires to paint the Cyprian dame,
Some artless linnet sings. Or bid her breathe in living stone,
The swain surveys her pleas'd, afraid, Sball take their forins from you alone,
Then low to earth he bends;
His health, his life, depends.
Vain futile idols, bird or flower,
To tempt a votary's prayer! The lovely Delia smiles again;
How would his humble homage tower, That killing frown has left her brow:
Should he behold my fair!
Yes-might the Pagan's waking eyes
O’er Flavia's beauty range, Love is an April's doubtful day :
He there would fix his lasting choice, A while we see the tempest lower ;
Nor dare, nor wish to change.
And quite forget the flitting shower.
SONG X. 1743.
Tag fatal hours are wondrous near, And double verdure gilds the plains,
That from these fountains bear my dear;
A little space is given; in vain :
Unmov'd, should Eastern kings advance, She robs my sight, and shuns the plain.
Could I the pageant see: A little space, for me to prove
Splendour might catch one scornful glance,
Not steal one thought from thee.
THE SCHOLAR'S RELAPSE.
By the side of a grove, at the foot of a hill, Shall draw my longing eyes aside.
Where whisper'd the beech, and where murmur'd The chief that knows of succours nigh,
the rill; And sees his mangled legions die,
I vow'd to the Muses my time and my care, Casts not a more impatient glance,
Since neither could win me the smile of my fair. To see the loitering aids advance.
Free I rang'd like the birds, like the birds free I sung,
(tongue; Not more, the school-boy that expires Far from his native home, requires
And Delia's lov'd name scarce escap'd from my To see some friend's familiar face,
But if once a smooth accent delighted my ear, Or meet a parent's last embrace
I should wish, unawares, that my Delia might hear.
With fairest ideas my bosom I stor'd,
And the more I with study my fancy refin'd,
The deeper impressions she made on my mind. Oh, Delia ! better far unseen.
So long as of Nature the charms I pursue, Methinks, by all my tender fears,
I still must my Delia's dear image renew : By all my sighs, by all my tears,
The Graces have yielded with Delia to rove, I might from torture now be free
And the Muses are all in alliance with Love. 'T is more than death to part from thee!
SONG XI. 1744.
SONG XII. 1744.
And wither'd heaths, I rove;
I pass to meet my love.
With beauties e'er so fine;
To fix alone-on thine,
No palace please mine eye:
Where wouldering monarchs lie.
Of all that cheerd the plain,
And she-repeats my pain.
Where'er my love-sick limbs 1 lay,
Averse to freedom, mirth, and play, . To shun the rushing wind,
The lofty rival of the day ; Its busy murmurs seem to say,
Methinks, to my enchanted eye, "She never will be kind !"
The lilies droop, the roses die. The Naiads, o'er their frozen urns,
But when, disdaining art, the fair In icy chains repine;
Assumes a soft engaging air; And each in sullen silence mourns
Mild as the opening morn of May, Her freedom lost, like mine !
And as the feather'd warblers gay : Soon will the Sun's returning rays
The scene improves where'er she goes, The cheerless frost control;
More sweetly smile the pink and rose. When will relenting Delia chase
O lovely ma'id ! propitions hear,
Nor think thy Damon insincere.
To me they languish, or improve,
And plainly tell me that I love.
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH. Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.
Yes, these are the scenes where with Iris I stray'd, Ye flowers! before her footsteps rise;
But short was her sway for so lovely a maid ! Display at once your brightest dyes ;
In the bloom of her youth to a cloister she run; That she your opening charms may see :
In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun! Or what were all your charms to me?
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flower,
So fatal to beauty, so killing to love! And shed its odours round my bower :
Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs, and the Or never more, O gentle wind,
[pains; Shall I, from thee, refreshment find.
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my Ye streams' if e'er your banks I lov'd,
How many soft inoments I spent in this grove! If e'er your native sounds improv'd,
How fair was myrymph, and how lervent my love! May each soft murmur sooth my fair !
Be still though, my heart! thine emotion give o'er; Or, oh! 't will deepen my despair.
Remember, the season of love is no more. And thou, my grot! whose lonely bounds
With her how 1 stray'd amid fountains and bowers, The melancholy pine surrounds,
Or loiter'd behind and collected the flowers; May Daphné praise thy peaceful gloom !
Then breathless with ardour my fair one pursu'd, Or thou shalt prove her Damon's tomb.
And to think with what kindness my garland she
But be still, my fond heart! this emotion give o'er,
WRITTEN IN A COLLECTION OF BACCHANALIAN SONG9.