ELEGY IV. Disappointed at not meeting JULIA, he accuses her of inconstancy. FAINT as the lustre of a lonely star, That sheds through night's abyss his distant fire, HOPE feebly glimmer'd on my heart's despair: Behold, behold, at length her lamp expire! Know, lovely VIRGIN, thy deluding art Hath lodg'd a thousand scorpions in my breast: Oh, say, what happier rival wins thy heart? Say, am I there no more a welcome guest? To a false FAIR-ONE have I told my tale? Thy charms the subject of my ev'ry song. Ye Swains, who heard so oft my raptur'd lays, False is the damsel that your wonder drew; Ye Nymphs who list'ned to the lavish'd praise, My soul's soft idol proves at length untrue. Nymphs of the vale, for me your pity spare; And grieve so fair a di'mond holds a flaw. Can FALSEHOOD's stain that dove-like heart defile? Ah, see the tear, by blushing honour shed! Lurks perfidy beneath that heav'nly smile? See LOVE with horror mark the guilty Maid! Yet, yet the tyrant of my breast she reigns: My wounded heart of cruelty complains, ELEGY V. Ile condemns the licentiousness of the age. TO false delights the YOUTH of BRITAIN fly, Who court for happiness the WANTON's arms; Who darts on all the fond inflaming eye, And choiceless yields to all, for gold, her charms. When in the SYREN's fond embrace you sigh, Doth FRIENDSHIP mingle with th' unhallow'd joy, When droops enjoyment, what is then the Fair? A flow'r that blooms, but quickly doom'd to fade; A sun that pours a momentary glare, And 'mid the tempest sinks, o'erwhelm'd in shade. O Swains, to MODESTY's fair daughters turn: By mental beauty let your hearts be led : Bid by your flight the venal FAIR-ONE mourn, And press in tears her solitary bed. When round your neck her fondling arms she glues, And, bent to please, exhausts each winning art; With false delights she shamefully subdues, And leads the PASSIONS captive, not the heart. Their midnight orgies whilst they madly hold, What bliss her tender beauties to enfold, TIME from ber bosom all its snows may steal, His iron hand her cheek's pure blush invade; Still to my JULIA will I fondly kneel, And love her most when all her roses fade. Who spurns the weeping FAIR-ONE from his breast, Hard is his heart-in ev'ry virtue poor: Hard is his heart to wound the fair DISTREST, Who sighs that she can charm his eye no more. Cruel to bid with grief her bosom heave, SONG. FROM her, whose ev'ry smile is love, My sighs too weak the Maid to move, |