Come, all ye love-sick maids, and wounded swains,
And listen to her healing strains :
A wondrous balm between her lips she wears,
Of sov❜reign force to soften cares;
And this through every ear she can impart
(By tuneful breath diffus'd) to every heart.
Swiftly the gentle charmer flies,
And to the tender grief soft air applies,
Which, warbling mystic sounds,
Cements the bleeding panter's wounds.
But ah! beware of clamorous moan;
Let no unpleasing murmur, or harsh groan,
Your slighted loves declare;
Your very tenderest moving sighs forbear,
For even they will be too boisterous here:
Hither let nought but sacred silence come,
And let all saucy praise be dumb.
And lo! Silence himself is here;
Methinks I see the midnight god appear,
In all his downy pomp array'd,
Behold the reverend shade:
An ancient sigh he sits upon,
Whose memory of sound is long since gone,
And purposely annihilated for his throne;
Beneath, two soft transparent clouds do meet,
In which he seems to sink his softer feet:
A melancholy thought, condens'd to air,
Stol'n from a lover in despair,
Like a thin mantle, serves to wrap
In fluid folds his visionary shape.
A wreath of darkness round his head he wears,
Where curling mists supply the want of hairs;
While the still vapours, which from poppies rise,
Bedew his hoary face, and lull his eyes.
But hark! the heavenly sphere turns round,
And silence now is drown'd
How on a sudden the still air is charm'd,
As if all harmony were just alarm'd!
And every soul, with transport fill'd,
Alternately is thaw'd and chill'd.
See how the heavenly choir
Come flocking to admire,
And with what speed and care
Descending angels cull the thinnest air!
Haste then, come all the' immortal throng,
And listen to her song!
Leave your lov❜d mansions in the sky,
And hither, quickly hither fly:
Your loss of heaven nor shall you need to fear;
While she sings, 'tis heaven here.
See how they crowd, see how the little cherubs skip! While others sit around her mouth, and sip
Sweet hallelujahs from her lip,
Those lips, where in surprise of bliss they rove; For ne'er before did angels taste
Of music and of love.
Prepare then, ye immortal choir,
Each sacred minstrel tune his lyre,
And with her voice in chorus join;
Her voice, which next to yours is most divine.
Bless the glad earth with heavenly lays,
And to that pitch the' eternal accents raise,
Which only breath inspir'd can reach, [teach: To notes, which only she can learn, and you can
While we, charm'd with the lov'd excess,
Are wrapt in sweet forgetfulness
Of all, of all, but of the present happiness:
Wishing for ever in that state to lie,
For ever to be dying so, yet never die.
FAIR Cælia love pretended,
And nam'd the myrtle bower,
Where Damon long attended
Beyond the promis'd hour.
At length, impatient growing
Of anxious expectation,
His heart with rage o'erflowing,
He vented thus his passion.
To all the sex deceitful
A long and last adieu!
Since woman prove ungrateful
As oft as men prove true.
The pains they cause are many,
And long and hard to bear;
The joys they give, (if any)
Few, short, and insincere.
But Celia now, repenting
Her breach of assignation,
Arriv'd, with eyes consenting
And sparkling inclination.
Like Citherea smiling,
She blush'd, and laid his passion;
The shepherd ceas'd reviling,
And sung this recantation.
How engaging, how endearing,
Is a lover's pain and care!
And what joy the nymph's appearing,
After absence or despair:
Women wise increase desiring,
By contriving kind delays;
And advancing, or retiring,
All they mean is more to please.
HAVING WRITTEN VERSES IN COMMENDATION
POEM WHICH WAS WRITTEN IN PRAISE OF AN-
OTHER LADY.
HARD is the task, and bold the' adventurous flight,
Of him, who dares in praise of beauty write;
For when to that high theme our. thoughts ascend,
"Tis to detract, too poorly to commend.
And he, who praising beauty, does no wrong,
May boast to be successful in his song:
But when the fair themselves approve his lays,
And one accepts, and one vouchsafes to praise;
His wide ambition knows no farther bound,
Nor can his muse with brighter fame be crown'd.
VOL. XIV.
PIOUS Selinda goes to prayers,
If I but ask the favour;
And yet the tender fool's in tears,
When she believes I'll leave her.
Would I were free from this restraint,
Or else had hopes to win her!
Would she could make of me a saint,
Or I of her a sinner!
IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1701.
O HARMONY, to thee we sing,
To thee the grateful tribute bring
Of sacred verse, and sweet resounding lays; Thy aid invoking while thy power we praise! All hail to thee,
All-powerful Harmony!
Wise nature owns thy undisputed sway,
Her wondrous works resigning to thy care:
The planetary orbs thy rule obey,
And tuneful roll unerring in their way,
Thy voice informing each melodious sphere.
Thy voice, O Harmony, with awful sound
Could penetrate the' abyss profound,
Explore the realms of ancient night,
And search the living source of unborn light.
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