HILE rich in brightest red the blushing Rofe
Her fresheft opening beauties did difclofe;
Her, the rough Thistle from a neighbouring field,
With fond defires and lover's eyes beheld:
Straight the fierce plant lays by his pointed darts,
And wooes the gentle flower with fofter arts.
Kindly he heard, and did his flame approve,
And own'd the warrior worthy of her love.
Flora, whofe happy laws the seasons guide,
Who does in fields and painted meads prefide,
And crowns the gardens with their flowery pride,
With pleasure faw the wishing pair combine,
To favour what their Goddefs did defign,
And bid them in eternal Union join.
Henceforth, the faid, in each returning year,
One ftem the Thistle and the Rofe fhall bear :
The Thistle's lafting grace, thou, O my Rose! shalt be,
The warlike Thiftle's arms, a fure defence to thee.
DONE FROM THE LATIN OF J. GERHARD *.
ANY that once, by Fortune's bounty rear'd, Amidst the wealthy and the great appear'd; Have wifely from thofe envy'd heights declin'd, Have funk to that just level of mankind, Where nor too little nor too much gives the true peace of mind.
* In his Meditationes Sacræ.
THE HAPPINESS OF THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN.
DONE FROM THE LATIN OF J. GERHARD.
N that blefs'd day, from every part, the just,
Rais'd from the liquid deep or mouldering duft, The various products of Time's fruitful womb, All of paft ages, prefent and to come,
In full affembly shall at once resort,
And meet within high heaven's capacious court:
There famous names rever'd in days of old,
Our great forefathers there we shall behold,
From whom old stocks and ancestry began,
And worthily in long fucceffion ran;
The reverend fires with pleasure shall we greet,
Attentive hear, while faithful they repeat
Full many a virtuous deed, and many a noble feat.
There all thofe tender ties, which here below,
Or kindred, or more facred friendship know,
Firm, conftant, and unchangeable shall grow.
Refin'd from paffion, and the dregs of sense,
A better, truer, dearer love from thence,
Its everlafting Being fhall commence :
There, like their days, their joys fhall ne'er be done,
No night fhall rife, to fhade heaven's glorious fun,
But one eternal holy-day go on.
TO THE TUNE OF GRIM KING OF THE GHOSTS.
ESPAIRING befide a clear stream,
A fhepherd forfaken was laid;
And while a falfe nymph was his theme,
A willow fupported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,
To his fighs with a figh did reply;
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
Alas, filly fwain that I was !
Thus fadly complaining, he cry'd,
When first I beheld that fair face,
'Twere better by far I had dy’d.
She talk'd, and I blefs'd the dear tongue;
When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great.
I listen'd, and cry'd, when the fung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet?
How foolish was I to believe
She could doat on fo lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve,
To forfake the fine folk of the town?
To think that a beauty fo gay,
So kind and fo conftant would prove;
go clad like our maidens in gray,
Or live in a cottage on love?
What though I have fkill to complain,
Though the Mufes my temples have crown'd;
What though, when they hear my foft ftrain,
The virgins fit weeping around,
Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel refign;
Thy falfe-one inclines to a fwain,
Whofe mufic is fweeter than thine.
And you, my companions fo dear,
Who forrow to fee me betray'd,
Whatever I fuffer, forbear,
Forbear to accufe the falfe maid.
Though through the wide world I should range,
'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly,
'Twas hers to be false and to change,
'Tis mine to be conftant and die.
If while my hard fate I fuftain,
In her breaft any pity is found,
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And fee me laid low in the ground.
The laft humble boon that I crave,
Is to fhade me with cyprefs and yew;
And when the looks down on my grave,
Let her own that her fhepherd was true.
Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array,
Be finest at every fine show,
And frolic it all the long day;
While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more fhall be talk'd of, or feen,
Unless when beneath the pale moon,
His ghoft fhall glide over the green.
E winds to whom Colin complains,
In ditties fo fad and fo fweet,
Believe me, the fhepherd but feigns
He's wretched, to fhew he has wit.
No charmer like Colin can move,
And this is fome pretty new art;
Ah! Colin's a jugler in love,
And likes to play tricks with my
When he will, he can figh and look pale,
Seem doleful and alter his face,
Can tremble, and alter his tale,
Ah! Colin has every pace:
The willow my rover prefers
To the breaft, where he once beg'd to lie And the ftream, that he fwells with his tears, Are rivals belov'd more than I.
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