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My lyre, upon the willow hung,
Will found, alas! no more;
Dead to the livelier airs I fung,
In happier days before;

Nor will it c'er renew its ftrain,
Whilft bound in fhackles you remain.

But, 'midst the grief my foul fuftains,
It is a sweet allay,

To fee thy fpirits, prefs'd with chains,
So unconcern'd and gay:

The god of wit to thee repairs,
And fweetly chants to lull thy cares.

He makes the gloomy prison bright,
And fings thee to repofe;
He fooths the horrors of the night,
And foftens all thy woes:

The free, with envying eyes look on,
And, thus to fing, wou'd be undone.

If ale fuch notions can produce,
Which is a muddy stream,

What wou'd the brisk enliv'ning juice,
And fome diviner theme?

Such ftrains from Tunstall then wou'd run,
Which Pope, or Addison might own.

Whate'er the poets may report, 'Tis in the Marfhalfea

The willing mufes keep their court,

In complaifance to thee:

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They quit Parnassus for thy cell;

And fure, I think, they've chofen well.

Their horfe, without a bit or rein,
Submits to thy command;

Aloft he foars, then skims the plain,
Obedient to thy hand:

Oh! wou'd the fteed my verfe obey,
His wings wou'd Tunftall bear away..

Then incenfe fhou'd his noftrils fill,

With clouds of grateful fume;
Thy numbers fhould be his regale,
And Clio be his groom;

His manger fhou'd of gold be made,
And all the floor with diamonds laid.

W. Tunstall

W. Tunstall to fair CLIO; who, the firft Time he bad the Honour to fee her, fung a Ballad of her own compofing, in Compliment to one be bad writ before.

AH! Clio, had thy diftant lays

Attack'd my weakest fide,

And thou hadst only writ to raise
An empty poet's pride;

With merry glee, then, all day long,
Thy wit and verfe had been my fong.

But, to the lines which thou hadft writ,
It was a cruel choice,

To add new force, and grace thy wit
With beauty and with voice.

Wit only points, but lips and eye
Feather the darts, and make them fly.

Thou fhou'dft thy dawning mufe have fent
Fore-runner to thy fun,

And not have spread the firmament,

At once, with height of noon;

To banish darknefs, it was kind;
But cruel, thus, to strike me blind.

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Thy arrows, from a random hand,

Might chance to miss their aim;
But when you take fo near a ftand,
They cannot fail to maim;

For what amazement must it bring,
To fee thee look, and hear thee fing!

When kindled skies their lightnings broach,
At diftance first they appear,

To warn us of their fierce approach,

And for the storm prepare; N

But flashes, unexpected, fright;
They melt the foul, and pierce the fight.

But you, fair nymph, no time allow,
You'at once our fate proclaim,

And whilft your beauty makes us glow,
Your voice infpires the flame:

But when the mufe affumes her part,
What engines can infure the heart?

The Delphick god, by female tongues,
His oracles declar'd,

Thro' horrid looks, from untun'd lungs,
The fate of crowns was heard;

But the whole god in you does meet,
His youth, his mufick, and his wit.

Had Sappho thus to Phaon writ,

She had efcap'd the wave;

The youth had been, by force of wit,
Compell'd the nymph to fave:

But

But Sappho met her destiny,

'Caufe Sappho cou'd not write like thee,

Like thee, had Eccho tun'd her voice,

Narciffus to invoke,

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The felf-lov'd youth had fix'd his choice,
Nor doom'd her to a rock :

Thus both a better fate had found,
She had not pin'd, nor he been drown'd.

But, whate'er fate to me belongs,
This comfort I shall have,

To be recorded in thy songs,

And triumph in the grave:

Who falls a victim to thy eyes,
Is, by thy verses, sure to rife.

Thy fragrant lines falute the sky,
Like an Arabian neft,

And, like an aged phoenix, I

Embalm'd on fpices reft;

Thus, whilst amidst thy flames I burn,
I rife immortal from the urn.

CLIO's

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