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If she reclaims the temporary boon,
Yet while with close delight and inward pride
The queen of Beauty stopp'd her bridled doves, Approv'd the little labour of the Loves; Was proud and pleas'd the mutual vow to hear, And to the triumpla call'd the god of War: Soon as she calls, the god is always near.
* Now Mars, (she said) let Fame exalt her voice, Nor let thy conquests only be her choice ; But when she sings great Edward from the field Return'd, the hostile spear and captive shield In Concord's temple hung, and Gallia taught to
yield. And when, as prudent Saturn shall complete The years design'd to perfect Britain's state, The swift-wing'd Power shall take her trump again, To sing her favourite Anna's wondrous reign; To récollect unwearied Marlborough's toils, · Old Rufus' hall unequal to his spoils; The British soldier from his high command Glorious, and Gaul thrice vanquish'd by his hand : Let her at least perform what I desire; With second breath the vocal brass inspire ; And tell the Nations in no vulgar strain, What wars I manage, and what wreaths I gain. And when thy tumults and thy fights are past; And when thy laurels at my feet are cast; Faithful may'st thou, like British Henry, prove; And Emma-like let me return thy love.
Renown'd for truth, let all thy sons appear; And constant Beauty shall reward their care.
Mars smil'd, and bow'd: the Cyprian deity Turn'd to the glorious Ruler of the sky;
And thou,' she smiling said, 'great God of days And verse, behold my deed, and sing my praise, As on the British earth, my favourite isle, Thy gentle rays and kindest influence smile, Through all her laughing fields and verdant groves, Proclaim with joy these memorable Loves. From every annual course let one great day, To celebrated sports and floral play Be set aside ; and in the softest lays Of thy poetic sons, be solemn praise And everlasting marks of honour paid, To the true lover, and the Nut-brown Maid.'
THE LADY's LOOKING-GLASS.
Walk'd o'er the sand-hills to the sea;
But, oh the change! the winds grow high;
Once more, at least, look back, (said I)
• But when vain doubt and groundless fear Do that dear foolish bosom tear; When the big lip and watery eye Tell me the rising storm is nigh; 'Tis then thou art yon angry main, Deform'd by winds and dash'd by rain,
And the poor sailor that must try
* Shipwreck’d, in vain to land I make,
CHLOE HUNTING. BEHIND her neck her comely tresses tied,
Her ivory quiver graceful by her side, A-hunting Chloe went: she lost her way, And through the woods uncertain chanc'd to stray. Apollo, passing by, beheld the maid; And, 'Sister dear, bright, Cynthia, turn, (he said) The hunted hind lies close in yonder brake.' Loud Cupid laugh'd to see the god's mistake; And, laughing, cried, ' Learn better, great divine, To know thay kindred, and to honour mine. Rightly advis'd, far hence thy sister seek, Or on Meander's bank or Latmus' peak; But in this nymph, my friend, my sister, know; She draws my arrows, and she bends my bow: Fair Thames she haunts, and every neighbouring
grove, Sacred to soft recess and gentle love. Go, with thy Cynthia hurl the pointed spear At the rough boar, or chase the flying deer : I and my Chloe take a nobler aim; At human hearts we fing, nor ever miss the game.'
THE GARLAND. THE pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair, The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsaf'd to place
Upon her brow the various wreath; The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath. The flowers she wore along the day,
And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they took'd more gay
Than glowing in their native bed. Undress'd at evening, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past, She chang'd her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast. That eye dropt sense distinct and clear,
As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well,
*My love, my life, (said I) explain This change of humour; pr’ythe tell,
That falling tear-what does it mean? She sigh'd ; she smil'd; and to the flow'rs
Pointing, the lovely mor’alist said,
See yonder what a change is made.
And that of Beauty are but one;
Both fade at evening, pale and gone. * At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung,
The amorous youth around her bow'd; At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw and kiss'd her in her shrowd. • Such as she is who died to-day,
Such I, alas ! may be to-morrow; Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.