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Touch'd to the soul, in vain he strives to hide
The fon's affection, in the Roman's pride :
O'er all the man conflicting passions rise,
Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.

Thus, gen'rous Critick, as thy Bard inspires,
The fifter Arts shall nurse their drooping fires ;
Each from his scenes her fores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string :
Those Sibyl-leavęs, the sport of ev'ry wind,
(For poets ever were a careless kind)
By thee dispos'd, no farther toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.

So spread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole unknown,
Ev'n Homer's numbers charmd by parts alone.
Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more,
By winds and water cast on ev'ry shore :
When rais'd by Fate, some former HANMER join'd
Each beauteous image of the boundless mind:
And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim
A fond alliance with the Poet's name.







FIDELE, supposed to be dead.

By the Same.


O fair Fidele's graffy tomb

Soft maids, and village hinds shall bring
Each op’ning sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring,

No wailing ghoft shall dare appear

To vex with shriek's this quiet grove:
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

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No wither'd witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew :
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The red-breast oft at ev’ning hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid :
With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs, -
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempefts shake the sylvan cell :
Or 'midst the chace on ev'ry plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly shed :
"Belov'd, till life could charm no more;

And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

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O Say, thou dear poffeffor of my breaft,

Where now's my boasted liberty and rest!
Where the gay moments which I once have known,
O where that heart I fondly thought my own!
From place to place I solitary roam,
Abroad uneasy, nor content at home.
I scorn the beauties common eyes adore,
The more I view them, feel thy worth the more;
Unmov'd I hear them speak, or see them fair,
And only think on thee

who art not there.
In vain would books their formal succour lend,

nor wisdom can relieve their friend; Wit can't deceive the pain I now endure, And wisdom thows the ill without the cure.


Nor wit,

When from thy fight I waste the tedious day,
A thoufand schemes I form, and things to fay;
But when thy presence gives the time I seek,
My heart's so full, I wish, but cannot speak.

And cou'd I speak with eloquence and ease,
Till now not ftudious of the art to please,
Cou'd I, at woman who so oft exclaim,
Expose (nor blush) thy triumph and my shame,
Abjure those maxims I so lately priz'd,
And court that sex I foolithly defpis'd,
Own thou hast soften'd my obdurate mind,
And thou reveng'd the wrongs of womankind s
Loft were my words, and fruitless all my pain,
In vain to tell thee all I write in vain ;
My humble sighs fhall only reach thy ears,
And all my eloquence shall be my tears.

And now (for more I never must pretend)
Hear me not as thy lover, but thy friend ;
Thousands will fain thy little heart enfnare,
For without danger none like thee are fair;
But wisely chuse who best deserves thy flame,
So shall the choice itself become thy fame;
Nor yet despise, tho' void of winning art,
The plain and honest courtship of the heart ::
The skilful tongue in love's persuasive lore,
Tho' less it feels, will please and flatter more;
And meanly learned in that guilty trade
Can long abuse a fond, unthinking maid.


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