I told my soft wishes; she sweetly reply'd,
(Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)
"I've rich ones rejected, and great ones deny'd,
But take me, fond shepherd-I'm thine."

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek!
So simple, yet sweet, were her charms!

P,

I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,
And lock'd the dear maid in my arms.
Now jocund together we tend a few shee
And if, by yon prattler, the stream,
Reclin'd on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views,

Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,
And point out new themes for my Muse.
To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,
The damsel 's of humble descent;
The cottager, PEACE, is well known for her sire,
And shepherds have nam'd her CONTENT.

CORYDON AND PHILLIS.

A PASTORAL.

HER sheep had in clusters crept close by the grove,
To hide from the rigours of day;
And Phillis herself, in a woodbine alcove,
Among the fresh violets lay:

A youngling, it seems, had been stole from its dam, (Twist Cupid and Hymen a plot)

That Corydon might, as he scarel'd for his lam', Arrive at this critical spot.

As through the gay hedge for his lambkin he peeps, He saw the sweet maid with surprise;

"Ye gods, if so killing," he cry'd, "when she sleeps,

I'm lost when she opens her eyes!

To tarry much longer would hazard my heart,
I'll onwards, my lambkin to trace:"

In vain honest Corydon strove to depart,
For love had him nail'd to the place.

"Hush, hush'd be these birds, what a bawling they keep!"

He cry'd, " you 're too loud on the spray, Don't you see, foolish lark, that the charmer's asleep?

You'll wake her as sure as 'tis day:

How dare that fond butterfly touch the sweet maid!
Her cheek he mistakes for the rose;

I'd pat him to death, if I was not afraid
My boldness would break her repose.”

Young Phillis look'd up with a languishing smile, "Kind shepherd," she said, " you mistake;

I laid myself down just to rest me a while,
But trust me, have still been awake:"
The shepherd took courage, advanc'd with a bow,
He plac'd himself close by her side,
And manag'd the matter, cannot tell how,
But yesterday made her his bride.

AN

ELEGY ON A PILE OF RUINS. Aspice murorum moles, præruptaque saxa ! Janus Vitalis.

Omnia, tempus edax depascitur, omnia carpit.

Seneca.

In the full prospect yonder hill commands, O'er barren heaths, and cultivated plains; The vestige of an ancient abbey stands,

Close by a ruin'd castle's rude remains.

Half buried, there, lie many a broken bust, And obelisk, and urn, o'erthrown by Time; And many a cherub, there, descends in dust From the rent roof, and portico sublime.

The rivulets, oft frighted at the sound

Of fragments, tumbling from the tow'rs on high, Plunge to their source in secret caves profound,

Leaving their banks and pebbly bottoms dry,

Where rev'rend shrines in gothic grandeur stood,

The nettle, or the noxious night-shade spreads; And ashlings, wafted from the neighb'ring wood, Through the worn turrets wave their trembling heads.

There Contemplation, to the crowd unknown, Her attitude compos'd, and aspect sweet! Sits musing on a monumental stone,

And points to the MEMENTO at her feet.

Soon as sage ev'ning check'd day's sunny pride,
I left the mantling shade in moral mood;
And seated by the maid's sequester'd side,
Sigh'd, as the mould'ring monuments I view'd.

The traveller 's bewilder'd on a waste;

And the rude winds incessant seem to roar, Where, in his groves with arching arbours grac'd, Young lovers often sigh'd in days of yore.

His aqueducts, that led the limpid tide

To pure canals, a crystal cool suppły! In the deep dust their barren beauties hide: [dry! Time's thirst, unquenchable, has drain'd them Though his rich hours in revelry were spent, With Comus, and the laughter-loving crew; And the sweet brow of Beauty, still unbent, Brighten'd his fleecy moments as they flow:

Fleet are the fleecy moments! fly they must; Not to be stay'd by masque or midnight roar! Nor shall a pulse among that mould'ring dust Beat wanton at the smiles of Beauty more!

Can the deep statesman, skill'd in great design,
Protract, but for a day, precarious breath?
Or the tun'd follower of the sacred Nine
Soothe, with his melody, insatiate Death!

No-though the palace bar her golden gate,

Or monarchs plant ten thousand guards around; Unerring, and unseen, the shaft of Fate Strikes the devoted victim to the ground!

trees,

'Mongst a rude group of monuments, appears

A marble-imag'd matron on her knees,
Half wasted, like a Niobe in tears:

Low levell'd in the dust her darling 's laid! Death pitied not the pride of youthful bloom; Nor could maternal piety dissuade,

Or soften the fell tyrant of the tomb.

The relics of a mitred saint may rest,

Where, mould'ring in the niche, his statue stands; Now nameless as the crowd that kiss'd his vest, And crav'd the benediction of his hands.

Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom,
The bones of an illustrious chieftain lie;
As trac'd among the fragments of his tomb,
The trophies of a broken Fame imply.

Ah! what avails, that o'er the vassal plain,

His rights and rich demesnes extended wide! That Honour and her kuights compos'd his train, And Chivalry stood marshal'd by his side!

Though to the clouds his castle seem'd to climb, And frown'd defiance on the desp'rate foe; Though deem'd invincible, the conqueror, Time, Levell'd the fabric, as the founder, low.

Where the light lyre gave many a soft ning sound,
Ravens and rooks, the birds of discord, dwell;
And where Society sat sweetly crown'd,
Eternal Solitude has fix'd her cell.

The lizard, and the lazy lurking bat,

Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room, Where the sage matron and her maidens sat, Sweet-singing at the silver-working loom.

The schoolman's page, or pride of Beauty's bloom? The crape-clad hermit, and the rich-rob'd king, Levell'd, lie mix'd promiscuous in the tomb.

The Macedonian monarch, wise and good,
Eade, when the morning's rosy reign began,
Courtiers should call, as round his couch they stood,
"Philip! remember, thou 'rt no more than man.

"Though glory spread thy name from pole to pole:
Though thou art merciful, and brave, and just;
Philip, reflect, thou 'rt posting to the goal,
Where mortals mix in undistinguish'd dust!”

So Saladin, for arts and arms renown'd,
(Egypt and Syria's wide domains subdu'd)
Returning with imperial triumphs crown'd,
Sigh'd, when the perishable pomp he view'd:
And as he rode, high in his regal car
In all the purple pride of conquest drest;
Conspicuous, o'er the trophies gain'd in war,
Plac'd, pendent on a spear, his burial vest:

While thus the herald cry'd-" This son of Pow'r,
This Saladin, to whom the nations bow'd,
May, in the space of one revolving hour,

Boast of no other spoil but yonder shroud!”

Search where Ambition rag'd, with rigour steel'd, Where Slaughter, like the rapid lightning, ran; And say, while Memory weeps the blood-stain'd field, [man? Where lies the chief, and where the common

Vain then are pyramids, and motto'd stones,
And monumental trophies rais'd on high !
ForTime confounds then with the crumbling bones,
That unx'd in hasty graves unnotic'd lie.

He that Love hath never try'd, ̧
Nor had Cupid for his guide,
Cannot hit the passage right
To the palace of delight.

What are honours, regal wealth,
Florid youth, and rosy health?
Without Love his tribute brings,
Impotent, unmeaning things!

Gentle shepherds, persevere,
Still be tender, still sincere;
Love and Time, united, do
Wonders, if the heart be true.

SAPPHO'S HYMN TO VENUS

IMITATED.

HAIL! (with cternal beauty blest!
O'er Heav'n and Earth ador'd!)
Hail, Venus! 'tis thy slave's request,
Her peace may be restor❜d:

Break the fond bouds, remove the rankling smart,
And bid thy tyrant son from Sappho's soul depart.

Once you descended, queen of love,

At Sappho's bold desire,

From the high roofs of sacred Jove,

Thy ever glorious sire!

I saw thy dusky pinion'd sparrows bear

Thy chariot, rolling light, through the rejoicing air.

No transient visit you design'd,

Your wanton birds depart ; And with a look, divinely kind,

That sooth'd my flutt'ring heart:

"Sappho," say you, "what sorrow breaks thy rest? How can I give relief to thy conflicting breast?

"Is there a youth severely coy,

My fav'rite would subdue?

Or has she lost some wand'ring boy,

To plighted vows untrue?

Spread thy soft nets, the rambler shall return,

And with new lighted flames, more fend, more fiercely burn.

Thy proffer'd gifts though he deride,
And scorn thy glowing charms,

Soon shall his every art be try'd
To win ther to his arms:

Though he be now as cold as virgin snow,
The victim, in his turn, shall like rons'd Etna glow."

ODE LVIII.

As I wove, with wanton care,
Fillets for a virgin's hair,
Culling for my fond design

What the fields had fresh and fine :
Cupid,—and I mark'd him well,
Hid him in a cowslip bell;
While he plum'd a pointed dart,
Fated to inflame the heart.

Glowing with malicious joy,
Sudden I secur'd the boy;
And, regardless of his cries,
Bore the little frighted prize
Where the mighty goblet stood,
Teeming with a rosy flood.

"Urchin," in my rage I cry'd, "What avails thy saucy pride? From thy busy vengeance free, Triumph now belongs to me! Thus I drown thee in my cup; Thus-in wine I drink thee up."

Fatal was the nectar'd draught That to murder Love I quaff'd, O'er my bosom's fond domains Now the cruel tyrant reigns: On my heart's most tender strings, Striking with his wanton wings, I'm for ever doom'd to prove All the insolence of love.

1

When I've my master's leave to stand
Cooing upon his friendly hand;
When I can be profusely fed
With crumbs of his ambrosial bread,
And, welcom'd to his nectar bowl,
Sip the rich drops that fire the soul;
Till, in fantastic rounds I spread
My fluttering pinions o'er his head?

"Or if he strike the trembling wire,
I perch upon my fav'rite lyre;
Till, lull'd into luxuriant rest,
Sleep steals upon my raptur'd breast.

"Go, stranger-to your business-go, I've told you all you wish'd to know: Go, stranger, and I think you'll say, This prattling Dove 's an arrant Jay."

Now I'm in my armour clasp'd, Now the mighty lance is grasp'd, But an Achileian spear Would be ineffectual here, While the poison'd arrows fly Hot, as lightning from the sky. Wounded, through the woods I run, Follow'd stil! by Beauty's son, Arrows in malignant showers Still the angry urchin pours; Till, exhausting all his store, (When the quiver yields no more) See the god-a living dart, Shoots himself into my heart.

Freedom I must, now, resign, Victory, oh Love, is thine! What can outward actions win When the battle burns within!

THE DANCE.

HARK! the speaking strings invite,
Music calls us to delight:

See the maids in measures move,
Winding like the maze of love.
As they mingle, madly gay,
Sporting Hebe leads the way.

On each glowing cheek is spread
Rosy Cupid's native red;
And from ev'ry sparkling eye
Pointed darts at random fly.
Love, and active Youth, advance
Foremost in the sprightly dance.

As the magic numbers rise, Through my veins the poison flies; Raptures, not to be exprest, Revel in my throbbing breast. Jocund as we beat the ground, Love and Harmony go round.

Every maid (to crown his bliss) Gives her youth a rosy kiss; Such a kiss as might inspire Thrilling raptures-soft desire Such Adonis might receive, Such the queen of beauty gave, When the conquer'd goddess strove (In the conscious myrtle grove) To inflame the boy with love.

Let not pride our sports restrain, Banish hence the prude, Disdain ! Think-ye virgins, if you 're coy, Think-ye rob yourselves of joy; Every moment you refuse, So much ecstasy you lose: Think-how fast these moments fly: If you should too long deny, Love and Beauty both will die.

ODE XIV.

Why did I with Love engage!
Why provoke his mighty rage!
True it is, the wand'ring child
Met me with an aspect mild,
And besought me, like a friend,
At his gentle shrine to bend.
True, from my mistaken pride,
Due devotion was deny'd,
Till (because I would not yield)
Cupid dar'd me to the field.

FILL me that capacious cup,
Fill it, to the margin up;
From my veins the thirsty day
Quaff's the vital strength away.

Let a wreath my temples shield, Fresh from the enamell'd field; These declining roses bow, Blasted by my sultry brow.

Flow'rets, by their friendly aid,
From the sunbeams form a shade:
Let me from my heart require,
(Glowing with intense desire)
Is there, in the deepest grove,
Shelter from the BEAMS of Love?

ODE XXXIII.

TO THE SWALLOW.

Soox as summer glads the sky,
Hither, gentle bird, you fly;
And with golden sunshine blest,
Build your pretty plaster'd nest

When the seasons cease to smile,
(Wing'd for Memphis or the Nile)
Charming bird, you disappear
Till the kind succeeding year.

Like the Swallow, Love, depart!
Respite for a while my heart.

No, he 'll never leave his nest,
Tyrant tenant of my breast!
There a thousand WISHES try
On their callow wings to fly;
There you may a thousand tell,
Pertly peeping through the shell:
In a state unfinish'd, rise
Thousands of a smaller size.

Till their noisy chirpings ccase,
Never shall my heart have peace.
Feather'd ones the younglings feed,
Till mature they 're fit to breed;
Then, to swell the crowded store,
They produce their thousands more:
Nor can mighty numbers count
In my breast their vast amount.