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To Tweedale's taste, to Edgecumbe's sense


And (Envy spare this boast) to Britain's queen;
Kind to the lay that all unlabour'd flow'd,
What Fancy caught, where Nature's pencil

She saw the path to new, tho' humble fame,
Gave me her praise, and left me fools to blame.
Strong in their weakness are each woman's

Dread that endears, and softness that disarms.
The tim'rous eye retiring from applause,
And the mild air that fearfully withdraws,
Marks of our power these humble graces prove,
And, dash'd with pride, we deeper drink of love.
Chief of those charms that hold the heart in
At thy fair shrine, O Modesty, we fall. [thrall,
Not Cynthia rising o'er the wat'ry way,
When on the dim wave falls her friendly ray;
Not the pure ether of Eolian skies,

That drinks the day's first glories as they rise;
Not all the tints from evening-clouds that break,
Burn in the beauties of the virgin's cheek;
When o'er that cheek, undisciplin'd by art,
The sweet suffusion rushes from the heart.

Yet the soft blush, untutor'd to control,
The glow that speaks the susceptible soul,
Led by nice honour, and by decent pride,
The voice of ancient virtue taught to hide;
Taught beauty's bloom the searching eye to shun,
As early flowers blow fearful of the Sun.

Far as the long records of time we trace⚫ Still flow'd the veil o'er modesty's fair face: The guard of beauty, in whose friendly shade, Safe from each eye the featur'd soul is laid,The pensive thought that paler looks betray, The tender grief that steals in tears away, The hopeless wish that prompts the frequent sigh Bleeds in the blush, or melts upon the eye.

The man of faith thro' Gerar doom'd to stray, A nation waiting his eventful way, His fortune's fair companion at his side, The world his promise, Providence his guide; Once, more than virtue dar'd to value life, And call'd a sister whom he own'd a wife. Mistaken father of the faithful race, Thy fears alone could purchase thy disgrace. "Go" to the fair, when conscious of the tale, Said Gerar's prince, "thy husband is thy veil 3." O ancient faith! O virtue mourn'd in vain! When Hymen's altar never held a stain; When his pure torch shed undiminish'd rays, And fires unholy died beneath the blaze! For faith like this fair Greece was early known, And claim'd the veil's first honours as her own.

The Fables of Flora.

2 Plato mentions two provinces in Persia, one of which was called the Queen's Girdle, the other the Queen's Veil, the revenues of which, no doubt, were employed in purchasing those parts of her majesty's dress. It was about the middle of the third century, that the eastern women, on taking the vow of virginity, assumed that veil which had before been worn by the Pagan priestesses, and which is used by the religious among the Romanists now.

3 He is the veil of thine eyes to all that are with thee, and to all others."-Gen. xx. 16. Vet. Trans.

Ere half her sons, o'er Asia's trembling coast, Arm'd to revenge one woman's virtue lost; Ere he, whom Circe sought to charm in vain, Follow'd wild fortune o'er the various main, In youth's gay bloom he plied th' exulting oar, From Ithaca's white rocks to Sparta's shore: Free to Nerician gales the vessel glides, And wild Eurotas smoothes his warrior tides; Foram'rous Greece, when Love conducts the way, Beholds her waters, and her winds obey. No object hers but Love's impression knows, No wave that wanders, and no breeze that blows, Her groves, her mountains have his power confest,

And Zephyr sigh'd not but for Flora's breast. 'Twas when his sighs in sweetest whispers


Far o'er Laconia's plains from Eva's 1 shade!
When soft-ey'd Spring resum'd his mantle gay,
And lean'd luxurious on the breast of May,
Love's genial banners young Ulysses bore
From Ithaca's white rocks to Sparta's shore.
With all that soothes the heart, that wins, or


All princely virtues, and all manly charms,
All love can urge, or eloquence persuade,
The future hero woo'd his Spartan maid.
Yet long he woo'd-in Sparta, slow to yield,
Beauty, like valour, long maintain'd the field.

"No bloom so fair Messene's banks disclose,
No breath so pure o'er Tempe's bosom blows;
No smile so radiant throws the genial ray
Thro' the fair eye-lids of the op'ning day;
But deaf to vows with fondest passion prest,
Cold as the wave of Hebrus' wint'ry breast,
Penelope regards her lover's pain,
And owns Ulysses eloquent in vain.

"To vows that vainly waste their warmth in

Insidious hopes that lead but to despair,
Affections lost, desires the heart must rue,
And love, and Sparta's joyless plains, adieu!
"Yet still this bosom shall one passion share,
Still shall my country find a father there.
Ev'n now the children of my little reign
Demand that father of the faithless main,
Ev'n now, their prince solicitous to save,
Climb the tall cliff, and watch the changeful


"But not for him their hopes or fears alone! They seek the promis'd partner of his throne; For her their incense breathes, their altars blaze, For her to Heaven the suppliant eye they raise. Ah! shall they know their prince implor'd in vain?

Can my heart live beneath a nation's pain?"

There spoke the virtue that her soul admir'd, The Spartan soul, with patriot ardour fir'd. "Enough!" she cried" Be mine to boast a part

In him, who holds his country to his heart. Worth, honour, faith, that fair affection gives, And with that virtue, ev'ry virtue lives."

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Pleas'd that the nobler principles could move His daughter's heart, and soften it to love, Icarius own'd the auspices divine,

Wove the fair crown 9, and bless'd the holy shrine.

But ah! the dreaded parting hour to brave!
Then strong affection griev'd for what it gave.
Should be the comfort of his life's decline,
His life's last charm to Ithaca resign?
Or, wand'ring with her to a distant shore,
Behold Eurotas' long-lov'd banks no more?
Expose his grey hairs to an alien sky,
Nor on his country's parent bosom die1?
"No, prince," he cried; "for Sparta's hap-
pier plain

Leave the lov'd honours of thy little reign.
The grateful change shall equal honours bring.
-Lord of himself, a Spartan is a king."
When thus the prince, with obvious grief


"Canst thou not force the father from thy breast?
Not without pain behold one child depart,
Yet bid me tear a nation from my heart?
-Not for all Sparta's, all Euba's plains❞—
He said, and to his coursers gave the reins.
Still the fond sire pursues with suppliant voice;
Till, mov'd, the monarch yields her to her


"Tho' mine by vows, by fair affection mine,
And holy truth, and auspices divine,
This suit let fair Penelope decide,
Remain the daughter, or proceed the bride."
O'er the quick blush her friendly mantle fell,
And told him all that modesty could tell.
No longer now the father's fondness strove
With patriot virtue or acknowledg'd love,
But on the scene that parting sighs endear'd,
Fair Modesty's" first honour'd fane he rear'd.
The daughter's form the pictur'd goddess


The daughter's veil 12 before her blushes bore,

The women of ancient Greece, at the mar. riage ceremony, wore garlands of flowers, probably as emblems of purity, fertility, and beauty. Thus Euripides,

αλλ' ὅμως γαμου μενην

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Σοι κατασεψατ' έγωνιν ἦνεν, ὡς The modern Greek ladies wear these garlands in various forms, whenever they appear dressed; and frequently adorn themselves thus for their own amusement, and when they do not expect to be seen by any but their domestics.

Voyage Litteraire de la Grece.

10 The ancients esteemed this one of the greatest misfortunes that could befall them. The Trojans thought it the most lamentable circumstance attending the loss of their pilot Palinurus, that his body should lie in a foreign country.

- Ignotâ, Palinure, jacebis arenâ. "Pausanias, who has recorded the story on which this little poem is founded, tells us that this was the first temple erected to Modesty in Greece.

12 See the Veil of Modesty in the Musum Capitolinum, vol. iii.; and for further proofs of its high antiquity, see Hom. Odyss. lib. vi. Claud. Epithal. Honor. where he says,

Et crines festina ligat, peplumque fluentem

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Oh! when beneath his golden shafts I bled,
And vainly bound his trophies round my head:
When crown'd with flowers, he led the rosy day,
Liv'd to my eye, and drew my soul away-
Could fear, could fancy, at that tender hour,
See the dim grave demand the nuptial flower?
There, there his wreathes dejected Hymen

And mourn'd their bloom unfaded as he view'd.
There each fair hope, each tenderness of life,
Each nameless charm of soft obliging strife,
Delight, love, fancy, pleasure, genius fled,
And the best passions of my soul lie dead;
All, all is there in cold oblivion laid,
But pale remembrance bending o'er a shade.
O come, ye softer sorrows, to my breast!
Ye lenient sighs, that slumber into rest! [wave,
Come, soothing dreams, your friendly pinions
We'll bear the fresh rose to yon honour'd grave;
For once this pain, this frantic pain forego,
And feel at last the luxury of woe!

Ye holy suff'rers, that in silence wait
The last sad refuge of relieving fate!

That rest at eve beneath the cypress' gloom,
And sleep familiar on your future tomb;
With you I'll waste the slow-departing day,
And wear with you th' uncolour'd hours away.
Oh! lead me to your cells, your lonely ailes,
Where resignation folds her arms and smiles:
Where holy faith unwearied vigils keeps,
And guards the urn where fair Constantia sleeps:
There, let me there in sweet oblivion lie,
And calmly feel the tutor'd passions die.



THE gentle pair that in these lonely shades,
Wand'ring, at eve or morn, 1 oft have seen,
Now, all in vain, I seek at eve or morn,
With drooping wing, forlorn,
Along the grove, along the daisied green.
For them I've warbled many a summer's day,
Till the light dews impearled all the plain,
And the glad shepherd shut his nightly fold;
Stories of love, and high adventures old
Were the dear subjects of my tuneful strain.

Ah! where is now the hope of all my lay? Now they, perchance, that heard them all are dead!

With them the meed of melody is fled,
And fled with them the list'ning ear of praise.
Vainly I dreamt, that when the wint❜ry sky
Scatter'd the white flood on the wasted plain,
When not one berry, not one leaf was nigh,
To sooth keen hunger's pain,

Vainly I dreamt my songs might not be vain.
That oft within the hospitable hall

Some scatter'd fragment haply I might find,
Some friendly crumb perchance for me design'd,
When seen despairing on the neighbouring wall.
Deluded bird, those hopes are now no more!
Dull Time has blasted the departing year,
And Winter frowns severe,
Wrapping his wan limbs in his mantle hoar;

See Spectator, No. 164.

Yet not within the hospitable hall
The cheerful sound of human voice I hear
No piteous eye is near,

To see me drooping on the lonely wall,


LITTLE bird, with bosom red,
Welcome to my humble shed!
Courtly domes of high degree
Have no room for thee and me;
Pride and pleasure's fickle throug
Nothing mind an idle song.

Daily near my table steal,
Doubt not, little though there be,
While I pick my scanty meal.
But I'll cast a crumb to thee;
Well rewarded, if I spy

Pleasure in thy glancing eye;
See thee, when thou'st eat thy fill,
Plume thy breast, and wipe thy bill.

Come, iny feather'd friend, again,
Well thou know'st the broken pane.
Ask of me thy daily store;
Go not near Avaro's door;
Once within his iron hall,
Woeful end shall thee befall.
Savage!-He would soon divest
Then, with solitary joy,
Of its rosy plumes thy breast;

Eat thee, bones and all, my boy!

O NATURE! grateful for the gifts of mind,
Duteous I bend before thy holy shrine;
To other hands be Fortune's goods assign'd,
And thou, more bounteous, grant me only

Bring gentlest Love, bring Fancy to my breast;
And if wild Genius, in his devious way,
Would sometimes deign to be my ev'ning guest,
Or near my lone shade not unkindly stray:
I ask no more! for happier gifts than these,
The suffrer, man, was never born to prove ;
But may my soul eternal slumbers seize,
If lost to Genius, Fancy, and to Love!



Now cease your sweet pipes, shepherds! cease your lays,

Ye warbling train, that fill the echoing groves
With your melodious love-notes! Die, ye winds,
That o'er Arcadian valleys blow ! ye streams,
Ye garrulous old streams, suspend your course,

And listen to Menalcas.


Come, fairest of the beauteous train that sport
On Ladon's flow'ry side, my Delia, come!
For thee thy shepherd, silent as he sits
Within the green wood, sighs: for thee prepares



The various wreathes in vain; explores the | Ah me! my friend! in happier hours I spread, shade

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SWEET land of Muses! o'er whose favour'd plains

Ceres and Flora held alternate sway;
By Jove refresh'd with life-diffusing rains,
By Phoebus blest with ev'ry kinder ray!
O with what pride do I those times survey,

When Freedom, by her rustic minstrels led, Danc'd on the green lawn many a summer's day,

While pastoral Ease reclin'd her careless head. In these soft shades: ere yet that shepherd fled, Whose music pierc'd Earth,air,and Heav'n and Hell,

And call'd the ruthless tyrant of the dead
From the dark slumbers of his iron cell.
His ear unfolding caught the magic spell :
He felt the sounds glide softly through his
The sounds that deign'd of Love's sweet power to
And, as they told, would point his golden


Fix'd was the god: nor power had he to part, For the fair daughter of the sheaf-crown'd


Fair without pride, and lovely without art,

Gather'd her wild flowers on the daisied green. He saw, he sigh'd; and that unmelting breast, Which arms the hand of death, the power of

love confest:




FRIEND of my genius! on whose natal hour, Shone the same star, but shone with brighter ray;

Oft as amidst thy Amwell's shades I stray, And mark thy true taste in each winding bower, From my full eye why falls the tender shower, While other thoughts than these fair scenes convey,

Like thee, the wild walk o'er the varied plain; The fairest tribe of Flora's painted train, Each bolder shrub that grac'd her genial bed, When old Sylvanus, by young wishes led,

Stole to her arms, of such fair offspring vain, That bore their mother's beauties on their head. Like thee, inspir'd by love-'twas Delia's charms! 'Twas Delia's taste the new creation gave: For her my groves in plaintive sighs would


And call her absent to their master's arms. She comes-Ye flowers, your fairest blooms urfold,

Ye waving groves, your plaintive sighs forbear, Breathe all your fragrance to the am'rous air, Ye smiling shrubs whose heads are cloth'd with gold!

She comes, by truth, by fair affection led, The long lov'd mistress of my faithful heart! The mistress of my soul, no more to part,

And all my hopes and all my vows are sped. Vain, vain delusions! dreams for ever fled! Ere twice the spring had wak'd the genial hour, The lovely parent bore one beauteous flower, And droop'd her gentle head,

And sunk, for ever sunk, into her silent bed. Friend of my genius! partner of my fate! To equal sense of painful suffering born! From whose fond breast a lovely parent torn, Bedew'd thy pale cheek with a tear so late

Oh! let us mindful of the short, short date, That bears the spoil of human hopes away, Indulge sweet mem'ry of each happier day! No, close, for ever close the iron gate Of cold oblivion on that dreary cell, Where the pale shades of past enjoyments dwell, And, pointing to their bleeding bosoms, say,

"On life's disastrous hour what varied woes await!"

Let scenes of softer, gentler kind,

Awake to fancy's soothing call,
And milder on the pensive mind,

The shadow'd thought of grief shall fall.
Oft as the slowly-closing day

Draws her pale mantle from the dew-star's eye,
What time the shepherd's cry

Leads from the pastur'd hills his flocks away,
Attentive to the tender lay

That steals from Philomela's breast,
Let us in musing silence stray,

Where Lee beholds in mazes slow

His uncomplaining waters flow,

And all his whisp'ring shores invite the charms of rest.



VALES of Penshurst, now so long unseen! Forgot each shade secure, each winding green; These lonely paths, what art have I to tread, Where once young Love,the blind enthusiast,led? Yet if the genius of your conscious groves

Eear on my trembling mind, and melts its His Sidney in my Sacharissa loves;
powers away?

Let him with pride her cruel power unfold;
By him my pains let Evremond be told.



Ye holy cares that haunt these lonely cells,
These scenes where salutary sadness dwells;
Ye sighs that minute the slow wasting day,
Ye pale regrets that wear my life away;
O bid these passions for the world depart,
These wild desires, and vanities of heart,
Hide every trace of vice, of follies past,
And yield to Heaven the victory at last.
To that the poor remains of life are due,
'Tis Heaven that calls, and I the call pursue.

Lord of my life, my future cares are thine,
My love, my duty greet thy holy shrine:
No more my heart to vainer hopes I give,
But live for thee, whose bounty bids me live.
The power that gave these little charms their


His favours bounded, and confin'd their space;
Spite of those charms shall time, with rude essay,
Tear from the cheek the transient rose away.
But the free mind, ten thousand ages past,
Its Maker's form, shall with its Maker last.
Uncertain objects still our homes employ;
Uncertain all that bears the name of joy!
Of all that feel the injuries of fate
Uncertain is the search, and short the date,
Yet ev'n that boon what thousands wish to gain?
That boon of death, the sad resource of pain!

Once on my path all Fortune's glory fell,
Her vain magnificence, and courtly swell :
Love touch'd my soul at least with soft desires,
And vanity there fed her meteor fires,
This truth at last the mighty scenes let fall,
An hour of innocence was worth them all.

Lord of my life! O, let thy sacred ray Shine o'er my heart, and break its clouds away, Deluding, flattering, faithless world, adieu ! Long hast thou taught me, God is only true; That God alone I trust, alone adore, No more deluded, and misled no more. Come, sacred hour, when wav'ring doubts

shall cease!

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All other ties indignant I disclaim,
Dishonour'd those, and infamous to name!

O fatal ties for which such tears I've shed.
For which the pleasures of the world lay dead!
That world's soft pleasures you alone disarm;
That world without you, still might have its

But now those scenes of tempting hope I close,
And seek the peaceful studies of repose:
Look on the past as time that stole away,
And beg the blessings of a happier day.

Ye gay saloons, ye golden-vested halls,
Scenes of high treats, and heart-bewitching balls!

Dress, figure, splendour, charms of play, farewell,
And all the toilet's science to excel;
E'en Love that ambush'd in this beauteous hair,
No more shall lie, like Indian archers, there.
Go, erring Love! for nobler objects given!
Go, beauteous hair, a sacrifice to Heaven!

Soon shall the veil these glowing features hide,
At once the period of their power and pride!
The helpless lover shall no more complain
Of vows unheard, or unrewarded pain;
While calmly sleep in each untutor❜d breast
My secret sorrow, and his sighs profest.

Go, flattering train! and, slaves to me no


With the saine sighs some happier fair adore!
Your alter'd faith I blame not, nor bewail-
And haply yet, (what woman is not frail?)
If he that lov'd me knew no other love!
Yet, haply, might I calmer minutes prove,

Yet were that ardour, which his breast in-

By charms of more than mortal beauty fir'd;
What nobler pride! could I to Heaven resign
The zeal, the service that I boasted mine!
O, change your false desires, ye flattering train,
And love me pious, whom you lov'd profane !

These long adieus with lovers doom'd to go,
Or prove their merit, or my weakness show,
May spare the tribute of a female tear,
But Heaven, to such soft frailties less severe,
May yield one tender moment to deplore
Those gentle hearts that I must hold no more.


THE free-born Muse her tribute rarely brings,
Or burns her incense to the power of kings!
But Virtue ever shall her voice command,
Alike a spade or sceptre in her hand.
Is there a prince untainted with a throne,
That makes the interest of mankind bis own;
Whose bounty knows no bounds of time or place,
Who nobly feels for all the human race :
A prince that acts in reason's steady sphere,
No slave to passion, and no dupe to fear;
A breast where mild humanity resides,
Where virtue dictates, and where wisdom guides;
A mind that, stretch'd beyond the years of

Explores the secret springs of taste and truth?
These, these are virtues which the Muse shall


And plant, for these, her laurels round a king! Britannia's monarch! this shall be thy praise; For this be crown'd with never-fading bays!"

THE HAPPY VILLAGER. VIRTUE dwells in Arden's vale; There her hallow'd temples rise, There her incense greets the skies, Grateful as the morning gale; There, with humble Peace and her, Lives the happy villager;

There, the golden smiles of morn Brighter every field adorn;

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