« السابقةمتابعة »
As partial to their words we prove;
With towering hopes fupply'd:
Then took the field_and dy'd.
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 (way. For in a stream so wonderous clear,
When angry Cupid searches round, Will not the radiant points appear ?
Will not the furtive fpoils be found? Too soon they were; and every dart,
Dipt in the Mufe's mystic fpring, Acquir'd uew force to wound the heart;
And taught at once to love and sing. Then farewel, ye Pierian quire;
For who will now your altars throng? From love we learn to swell the lyre ;
And echo alks no sweeter song.
THE DYING KID.
Optima quæque dies miseris mortalibus ævi " Prima fugit
TWAS not by beauty's aid alone,
Which beauty firit convey'd.
Have all its sweets combin'd ;
To prove the charmer kind Though wit might gild the tempting (nare, With softest accent,
Which love-fick fwains endure:
And smiles-most ever cure.
Experience hourly thows !
Eternal sweets bestows.
To learn from stars his fate :
Convinc'i and wife too late.
Tear bedews my Delia's eye,
To think yon playful kid must die;
And cruel 'twere a free-born fwain,
A British youth, should vainly mork ; Written chiefly between the Years 1737 Who, scornful of a tyrant's chain,
Submits to yours, and yours alone.
Nor pointed spcar, nor links of Iteel,
Could e'er those gallant minds subdue,
Who beauty's wounds with pleasure feel, Told my nymph, I told her true,
And boat the fetters wrought by you.
My fields were small, my flocks were few;
SONG IV. The SxY-LARK.
10, tuneful bird, that glad'it the skich, And is not Flavia then fincere!
And there on quivering pinions rise,
And there thy vocal art display.
And if she deign thy notes to hear,
And if the praise thy matin song,
Tell her, the sounds that soothe 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;
Who sings her praise, and fin, s forlore.
" Ah! ego non aliter tristes evincere morbos
OW pleas'd within my native bowers
Ere while I pass'd the day!
Were ever flowers so gay?
And all the landskip round!
The hill with becches crown'd!
I speed to meet my dear,
And check my fond career.
Their wonted charnis I see :
Divide my love and me.
1 trace the jovial spring in vain!
SONG IX. 1743.
SONG VI. The Attribute of VENUS.
Ya Fulvia is like Venus fair;
Has all her bloom, and shape and air : But ftill, to perfect every grace, She wants
the smile up her face. The crown majestic Juno wore ; And Cynthia's brow the crescent bore, An 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 gen left doves! And from her zone, the nymph may find, 'Tis beauty's province to be kind. Then smile, my fair; aud a!l whose aim Aspires to paint the Cypriad dame, Or bid her breathe in living stone, Shall take their forms from you alone.
IS said that ander distant kies,
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 tay, May to the waking fwain disclose
The regen: 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 topmast bough, And
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; And owns, upon her friendly aid,
His health, his life, depends : Vain futile idols, bird or fower;
To tempt a votary's prayer ! How would his humble homage tower,
Should he behold my fair!
O'er Flavia's beauty range,
Nor dare, nor wish to chnage.
Can We forgive my jealous pain,
And give me back my angry vow? Love is an April's doubtful day;
A while we fee the tempeft lower ; Anon the radient heaven survey,
And quite forget the fitting shower. I he flowers, that hung their languid head,
Are burnish'd by the transient rains ; The vines their wonted tendrils spread,
And double verdurė gilds the plains. The sprightly birds, that droop'd no lefs
Beneath the power of rain and wind, lo every raptur'd note, express
The joy i feel-when thou art kind.
SONG X. 1743.
HE fatal hours are wonderous ncar,
S O N G
VIII. 1742. W
HEN bright Roxana treads the green,
In all the pride of dress and mien;
A little space is given; in vain :
She comes-but ah! what crowds of beaux
But if once a smooth accent delighted my ear,
SONG XI. 1744.
SONG XIV. The ROSE-BUD.
EE, Daphne, see, Florelio cry'd,
ERHAPS it is not love, said I,
1 hạt meits my soul when Flavia's nigh ; Where wit and sense like her's agree, One may be pleas'd, and yee 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 loveOh! when did wit so brightly shine Iu any form less fair than thine ? It is it is lovc's subtle fire, And under friend hip lurks degre.
SONG XII. 1744.
Ġ . 'ER desert plains, and rushy meers, W here tree, nor spire, nor cot appears,
I pass to meet my love.
With beauties e'er so fine;
To fix alone on thine,
No palace please mine eye:
Where mouldering monarchs lie. Unmov’d, should Eastern kings advance ;
Could I the pageant fee : Splendour might catch one scornful glance,
Not steal one thought from thee.
Yon shelter'd rose, how safe conceal'd!
SONG XV. WINTER. 1746.
SONG XIII. The SCHOLAR'S RELAPSE. B¥ the side of a grove, at the font of a hill, Where whisper'd the beech, and where mur
mur'd the rill ; I vow'd to the Muses my time and my care, Since neither could win me the smiles of my fair. I'ree I rang'd like the birds, like the birds free I
fung, And Delia's lov'd name scarce escap'd from my
O more, ye warbling birds, rejoice : Echo alone preserves her voice,
And the-repeats my pain. Where'er my love-lick limbs I. lay,
To shun the rushing wind, Its busy murmurs feem to say,
" She never will be kind!”
In icy chains repine ;
Her freedom loft, like mine!
The chearless frost controul ; When will relenting Delia chase
The winter of my soul ?
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 smiles 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 thy languish, or improve, And plainly tell me chat I love.
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 fee : Or what were all your charms to me? Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flower, And thed its odours round my bower: Or never morc, O gentle wind, Shaill, from chee, refreshment find. Ye streams! if e'er your banks I lov'd If e'er your native sounds improv'd, May each soft murmur soothe my fair! Or, oh! 'twill deepen my despair. And thou, my grot ! whose lonely bounds The melancholy pine surrounds, May 1 aphne praise thy peaceful gloom! Or thou shalt prove her Damon's comb.
ES, 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 cloyster she run; In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun! Jll-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove So fatal co beauty, so killing to love !Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs, and the
plains; Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my
pains; How many soft moments I spent in this grove! How fair was my nymph! and how fervent ny
love! Be still though, my heart ! thine emotion give
o'er; Remember, the season of love is no more. With her how I fray'd amid fountains and bow.
ers, Or, loiter'd behind and collected the flowers ! Then breathless with ardour my fair one pursued, And to think with what kindness ny garland the
view'd! But be fill, my fond heart! this emotion give
o'er! Fain would'st thou forget thou must love her no
Written in a collection of Bacchanalian
THEN bright Ophelia treads the green,
In all the pride of dress and mien;
Where Avon rools his winding Cream, The nymphs-how brisk! the twains--how gay! To fee Afteria, Queen of May! The parsons round, her praises sung: The steeples, with her praises rur! I thought-o-no fight, that e'er wa seen, Could match the fight of Barcl-green! z