The nymph reply'd-You first, my swain,
Confine your fonnets to the plain;
One envious tongue alike disarms,
You, of your wit, me, of my charms.
What is, unknown, the poet's skill?
Or what, unheard, the tuneful thrill?
What, unadmir'd, a charming mien,
Or what the rofe's blufh, unfeen?
SONG XV. WINTER. 1746.
No more, ye warbling birds, rejoice :
Of all that chear'd the plain,
Echo alone preferves her voice,
And fhe-repeats my pain.
Where'er my love-fick limbs I lay,
To shun the rushing wind,
Its bufy murmurs feems to fay,
"She never will be kind!"
The Naiads, o'er their frozen urns,
In icy chains repine ;
And each in fullen filence mourns
Her freedom loft, like mine!
Soon will the fun's returning rays
The chearless froft controul;
When will relenting Delia chase
The winter of my foul?
SONG XVI. DAPHNE'S VISIT.
E birds for whom I rear'd the
grove,
With melting lay falute my love :
My Daphne with your notes detain:
Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.
Ye flowers! before her footsteps rife;
Display at once your brighteft dyes;
That the your opening charms may fee:
Or what were all your charms to me?
Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flower,
And shed its odours round my bower:
Or never more, O gentle wind,
Shall I, from thee, refreshment find.
Ye ftreams! if e'er your banks I lov'd,
If e'er your native founds improv'd,
May each soft murmur foothe my fair!
Or, oh! 'twill deepen my defpair.
And thou, my grot! whofe lonely bounds
The melancholy pine furrounds,
May Daphne praife thy peaceful gloom!
Or thou shalt prove her Damon's tomb.
SONG XVII. Written in a Collection of BACCHANALIAN SONGS.
DIEU, ye jovial youths, who join
To plunge old care in floods of wine; And, as your dazzled eye-balls roll, Difcern him ftruggling in the bowl.
Not yet is hope fo wholly flown,
Not yet is thought so tedious grown,
But limpid ftream and shady tree
Retain, as yet, fome fweets for me.
And fee through yonder filent grove,
See yonder does my Daphne rove;
With pride her footsteps I purfue,
And bid your frantic joys adieu,
The fole confufion I admire,
Is that my Daphne's eyes inspire:
I fcorn the madness you approve,
And value reafon next to love.
WHEN bright Ophelia treads the green,
In all the pride of dress and mien;
Averse to freedom, mirth, and play,
The lofty rival of the day;
Methinks to my enchanted eye,
The lilies droop, the roses die.
But when, difdaining art, the fair
Affumes a foft, engaging air:
Mild as the opening morn of May,
And as the feather'd warblers gay:
The scene improves where'er fhe goes,
More fweetly fmiles the pink and rose,
O lovely maid! propitious hear,
Nor think thy Damon infincere.
Pity my wild delufive flame:
For though the flowers are ftill the fame,
To me they languish, or improve,
And plainly tell me that I love.
SONG XIX. Imitated from the French.
ES, these are the scenes where with Iris I stray'd
But fhort was her fway for fo lovely a maid!
In the bloom of her youth to a cloyster she run;
In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove
So fatal to beauty, fo killing to love!
Yes, these are the meadows, the fhrubs, and the plains;
Once the scene of my pleafures, the fcene of my pains;
How many foft moments I spent in this grove!
How fair was my nymph! and how fervent my love!
Be ftill though, my heart! thine emotion give o'er;
Remember, the feafon of love is no more.
With her how I ftray'd amid fountains and bowers,
Or loiter'd behind and collected the flowers!
Then breathlefs with ardor my fair-one purfued,
And to think with what kindness my garland the view'd!
But be still, my fond heart! this emotion give o'er!
Fain would it thou forget thou must love her no more.
A PARODY.
WHEN firt, Philander, first I came
Where Avon rolls his winding ftream,
The nymphs-how brifk! the fwains-how gay!
To fee Afteria, Queen of May !-
The parfons round, her praises fung!
The fteeples, with her praises rung!-
I thought-no fight, that e'er was seen,
Could match the fight of Barel's-green!
But now, fince old Eugenio dy'd—
The chief of poets, and the pride➡
Now, meaner bards in vain aspire
To raife their voice, to tune their lyre!
Their lovely season, now, is o'er!
Thy notes, Florelio, please no more!
No more Afteria's fmiles are feen! -
Adieu!-the fweets of Barel's-green!
HY o'er the verdant banks of Coze
Does yonder halcyon speed so fast ?
'Tis all becaufe fhe would not lofe
Her favourite calm that will not last.
The fun with azure paints the skies,
The ftream reflects each flowery spray:
And frugal of her time the flies
To take her fill of love and play.
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