That without hope, 'twould die as foon,
A little hope-but I have none :
On air the poor Camelions thrive,
Deny'd e'en that, my love can live.
V.

As toughest trees in ftorms are bred,
And grow in fpite of winds, and fpread ;
The more the tempeft tears and shakes
My love, the deeper root it takes.
VI.

Despair, that aconite does prove,
And certain death to others love;
That poifon, never yet withstood,
Does nourish mine, and turns to food.
VII.

O! for what crime is my torn heart
Condemned to fuffer deathless smart ?
Like fad Prometheus, thus to lie
In endless pain, and never die.

Μ'

In Imitation of Theocritus.

FIX, mix the Philters, quick-the flies, the flies,
Deaf to my call, regardlefs of my cries.
Are vows fo vain? could oaths fo feeble prove?
Ah! with what eafe the breaks thofe chains of love!
Whom love with all his force had bound in vain,
Let charms compel, and magic rites regain.

Begin, begin, the myftic fpells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
Queen of the night, bright emprefs of the stars,
The friend of love, affift a lover's cares;
And thou, infernal Hecate, be nigh,
At whofe approach fierce wolves affrighted fly :
Dark tombs difclofe their dead, and hollow cries
Echo from under ground-Arife, arise.

Begin, begin, the mystic spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.

As

As crackling in the fire this laurel lies,
So, ftrugling in love's flame, her lover dies;
It bursts, and in a blaze of light expires,

So may the burn, but with more lafting fires.
Begin, begin, the mystic spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
As the wax melts, which to the flame I hold,
So may the melt, and never more grow cold.
Tough iron will yield, and stubborn marble run,
And hardest hearts by love are melted down.

Begin, begin, the myftic fpells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
As with impetuous motion whirling round,

This magic wheel ftill moves, yet keeps its ground,
Ever returning, fo may fhe come back,
And never more the appointed round forfake.
Begin, begin, the myftie fpells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
Diana, hail all hail! moft welcome thou,
To whom th' infernal king and judges bow;
O thou, whofe art the power of hell difarms,
Upon a faithlefs woman try thy charms.

Hark! the dogs howl, fhe comes, the goddess comes,
Sound the loud trump, and beat our brazen drums.
Begin, begin, the myftic fpells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
How calm's the fky! how undisturb'd the deep!
Nature is hufht, the very tempefts fleep;
The drowfy winds breathe gently thro' the trees,
And filent on the beach, repofe the feas:
Love only wakes; the ftorm that tears my breaft
For ever rages, and diftracts my reft:
O love! relentless love! tyrant accurft,
In defarts bred, by cruel tygers nurs'd!

Begin, begin, the myftic fpells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
This Ribbon, that once bound her lovely waift,
O that my arms might gird her there as faft!
Smiling the gave it, and I priz'd it more
Than the rich zone the Idalian Goddess wore :
This Ribbon, this lov'd relict of the fair,
So kift, and fo preferv'd-thus-thus I tear.
O love! why dost thou thus delight to rend
My foul with pain? Ah! why torment thy friend?
Begin, begin, the myftic fpells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
Thrice have I facrific'd, and proftrate thrice
Ador'd: affift, ye powers, the facrifice.
Whoe'er he is whom now the fair beguiles
With guilty glances, and with perjur'd fmiles,
Malignant vapours blaft his impious head,

Ye lightnings fcorch him, thunder strike him dead;
Horror of confcience all his flumbers break,
Diftract his reft, as love keeps me awake;
If married, may his wife an Helen be,
And curs'd, and fcorn'd, like Menelaus, he.
Begin, begin, the myftic fpells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
Thefe powerful drops, thrice on the threshold pour,
And bathe with this enchanted juice, her door,
That door where no admittance now is found,
But where my foul is ever hovering round.

Hafte, and obey; and binding be the spell;
Here ends my charm; O Love! fucceed it well:
By force of magic, stop the flying fair,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
Thou 'rt now alone, and painful is restraint,
Eafe thy preft heart, and give thy forrows vent ;
Whence fprang, and how began thefe griefs, declare;
How much thy love, how cruel thy defpair.
Ye moon and stars, by whofe aufpicious light

I haunt thefe groves, and wafte the tedious night!
Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret smart.
Too late for hope, for my repofe too foon
I faw, and lov'd: Her heart engag'd, was gone;
A happier man poffefs'd whom I adore;
O! I fhould ne'er have feen, or feen before.

Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret fmart.
What shall I do? Shall I in filence bear,
Deftroy myself, or kill the ravifher?
Die, wretched lover, die; but O! beware,
Hurt not the man who is belov'd by her;
Wait for a better hour, and truft thy fate,
Thou feek'ft her love, beget not then her hate.

Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguifh, and its fecret fmart.

My life confuming with eternal grief,
From herbs and fpells, I feek a vain relief;
To every wife magician I repair

In vain, for ftill I love, and I defpair.
Circe, Medea, and the Sybils' books,
Contain not half th' enchantment of her looks.

Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret smart.
As melted gold preferves its weight the fame,
So burnt my love, nor wafted in the flame.
And now, unable to fupport the strife,
A glimmering hope recalls departing life:
My rival dying, I no longer grieve,
Since I may ask, and the with honour give.

Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguifh, and its fecret fmart.
Witnefs, ye hours, with what unwearied care,
From place to place I ftill purfu'd the fair;
Nor was occafion to reveal my flame,
Slow to my fuccour, for it kindly came,
It came, it carne, that moment of delight,
O Gods! and how I trembled at the fight!

Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret fmart.
Difmay'd, and motionlefs, confus'd, amaz'd,
Trembling I ftood, and terrify'd I gaz’d;
My faultering tongue in vain for utterance try'd,
Faint was my voice, my thoughts abortive dy'd,
Or in weak founds, and broken accents came,
Imperfect, as difcourfes in a dream.

Tell, for you know the burthen of my Leart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret fmart..
Soon the divin'd what this confusion meant,
And guefs'd with eafe the caufe of my complaint.
My tongue emboldening as her looks were mild,
At length I told my griefs-and fill, the frell d.
O feren!

O fyren! fyren! fair deluder, fay,

Why would you tempt to truft, and then betray?
So faithless now, why gave you hopes before?
Alas! you should have been lefs kind, or more.
Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret smart.
Secure of innocence, I feek to know

From whence this change, and my misfortunes grow,
Rumour is loud, and every voice proclaims
Her violated faith, and confcious flames:
Can this be true? Ah! flattering mifchief speak;
Could you make vows, and in a moment break?
And can the space fo very narrow be
Betwixt a woman's oath, and perjury?
O Jealoufy all other ills at first

My love effay'd, but thou art fure the worst.
Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret smart.
Ungrateful Myra! urge me thus no more,
Nor think me tame, that once fo long I bore;
If paffion, dire revenge, or black despair,
Should once prevail beyond what man can bear,
Who knows what I? Ah! feeble rage, and vain!
With how fecure a brow fhe mocks my pain:
Thy heart, fond lover, does thy threats belie,
Canft thou hurt her, for whom thou yet wouldft die ?
Nor durft the thus thy juft refentment brave,
But that she knows how much thy foul's her flave.
But fee! Aurora rifing with the fun,
Diffolves my charm, and frees th' enchanted moon;
My fpells no longer bind at fight of day,
And young Endymion calls his love away:
Love's the reward of all, on earth, in heaven,
And for a plague to me alone was given :
But ills not to be fhunn'd we must endure,
Death, and a broken heart's a ready cure.
Cynthia, farewel, go reft thy wearied light,

I must for ever wake-We'll meet again at night.

I

THE

VISION.

N lonely walks, diftracted by despair,

Shunning mankind, and torn with killing care,
My eyes o'erflowing, and my frantic mind
Rack'd with wild thoughts, fwelling with fighs the
wind;

Through paths untrodden, day and night I rove,
Mourning the fate of my fuccefsless love.
Who moft defire to live, untimely fall,
But when we beg to die, death flies our call;
Adonis dies, and torn is the lov'd breast
In midst of joy, where Venus wont to rest;
That fate, which cruel feem'd to him, would be
Pity, relief, and happiness to me.

When will my forrows end? In vain, in vain
I call to heaven, and tell the Gods my pain;
The Gods averfe, like Myra, to my prayer,
Confent to doom, whom he denies to spare.
Why do I feek for foreign aids, when I
Bear ready by my fide the power to die?
Re keen, my fword, and ferve thy mafter well,

Heal wounds with wounds, and love with death repel.
Straight up I rofe, and to my aking breast,
My boform bare, the ready point I preft;

When lo aftonish'd, an unusual light
Pierc'd the thick fhade, and all around grew bright;
My dazzled eyes a radiant form behold,
Splendid with light, like beams of burning gold;
Eternal rays his shining temples grace;
Eternal youth fat blooming on his face.
Trembling I listen, proftrate on the ground,
His breath perfumes the grove, and mufic's in the
found *.

Ceafe, lover, ceafe, thy tender heart to vex,
In fruitless plaints of an ungrateful fex.
In Fate's eternal volumes it is writ,

That women ever shall be foes to wit.
With proper arts their fickly minds command,
And pleafe 'em with the things they understand;
With noify fopperies their hearts affail,
Renounce all fenfe; how fhould thy fongs prevail,
When I, the God of Wit, fo oft could fail?
Remember me, and in my story find

}

How vainly merit pleads to womankind :
I, by whom all things fhine, who tune the spheres,
Create the day, and gild the night with stars;
Whofe youth and beauty, from all ages paft,
Sprang with the world, and with the world fhall last.
How oft with fruit lefs tears have I implored
Ungrateful nymphs, and though a God, ador'd?
When could my wit, my beauty, or my youth,
Move a hard heart? or mov'd, fecure is truth?

Here a proud nymph, with painful steps I chace,
The winds out-flying in our nimble race;
Stay, Daphne, ftay. In vain, in vain I try
To stop her speed, redoubling at my cry,
O'er craggy rocks, and rugged hills the climbs,
And tears on pointed flints, her tender limbs :
'Till caught at length, just as my arms I fold,
Turn'd to a trec the yet escapes my hold.

In my next love, a diff'rent fate I find, Ah! which is worse, the falfe, or the unkind? Forgetting Daphne, I Coronis † chofe, A kinder nymph too kind for my repose: The joys I give, but more provoke her breaft, She keeps a private drudge to quench the reft; How, and with whom, the very birds proclaim Her black pollution, and reveal my shame. Hard lot of beauty! fatally beftow'd, Or given to the falfe, or to the proud ; By different ways they bring us equal pain, The falfe betray us, and the proud disdain. Scorn'd and abus'd, from mortal loves I fly, To feek more truth in my own native sky. Venus, the fairest of immortal loves, Bright as my beams, and gentle as her doves, With glowing eyes, confeffing warm defires, She fummons heaven and earth to quench her fires, Me the excludes; and I in vain adore, Who neither God nor man refus'd before; Vulcan, the very monster of the skies, Vulcan fhe takes, the God of Wit denies.

Then ceafe to murmur at thy Myra's pride, Whimfy, not Reafon, is the female guide :

The fate, of which their mafter does complain,
Is of bad omen to th' inspired train.

What vows have fail'd? Hark how Catullus mourns,
How Ovid weeps, and flighted Gallus burns;
In melting ftrains fee gentle Waller bleed,
Unmov'd the heard, what none unmov'd can read.
And thou, who oft with fuch ambitious choice,
Haft rais'd to Myra thy afpiring voice,

What profit thy neglected zeal repays?
Ah what return? Ungrateful to thy praife?

Change, change thy ftyle, with mortal rage return Unjuft difdain, and pride oppofe to fcorn;

Search all the fecrets of the fair and young,

And then proclaim, foon fhall they bribe thy tongue;
The fharp detractor with fuccefs affails,

Sure to be gentle to the man that rails;
Women, like cowards, tame to the fevere,
Are only fierce when they discover fear.

Thus fpake the God; and upward mounts in air,
In juft refentment of his paft despair.
Provok'd to vengeance, to my aid I call
The furies round, and dip my pen in gall:
Not one fhall 'fcape of all the cozening fex,
Vex'd fhall they be, who fo delight to vex.
In vain I try, in vain to vengeance move
My gentle mufe, fo us'd to tender love;
Such magic rules my heart, whate'er I write
Turns all to foft complaint, and amorous flight.
Begone, fond thoughts, begone, be bold, faid I,
Satire's thy theme-In vain again I try,
So charming Myra to each fenfe appears,
My foul adores, my rage diffolves in tears.

So the gall'd lion, fmarting with his wound, Threatens his foes and makes the foreft found, With his ftrong teeth he bites the bloody dart, And tears his fide with more provoking smart, Till having fpent his voice in fruitless cries,

He lays him down, breaks his proud heart, and dies.

H

ERE end my chains, and thraldom ceafe, If not in joy, I'll live at least in peace; Since for the pleasures of an hour,

We must endure an age of pain,
I'll be this abject thing no more,
Love, give me back my heart again.
Despair tormented firft my breaft,
Now falfehood, a more cruel guest;
O! for the peace of human kind;
Mike women longer true, or fooner kind;
With juftice, or with mercy reign,
O Love! or give me back my heart again.

ESSAY

Upen unnatural Flights in Poetry.

S when fome image of a charming face In living paint, an artist tries to trace, He carefully confults each beauteous line, Adjufting to his object, his defign, We praife the piece, and give the painter fame, But as the juft refemblance fpeaks the dame. Poets are limners of another kind,

To copy out ideas in the mind;

}

Words are the paint by which their thoughts are shown,

And nature fits, the object to be drawn,
The written picture we applaud, or blame,
But as the due proportions are the fame.

Who driven with ungovernable fire,

Or void of art, beyond thefe bounds afpire,
Gigantic forms, and monftrous births alone
Produce, which Nature fhock'd, difdains to own.
By true reflexion I would fee my face,
Why brings the fool a magnifying glafs ?

D

(1) " But

(1)" But Poetry in fiction takes delight,

"And mounting in bold figures out of fight, "Leaves Truth behind, in her audacious flight: "Fables and metaphors, that always lie, "And rafh hyperboles that foar fo high, "And every ornament of verfe must die." Miftake me not: no figures I exclude, And but forbid intemperance, not food. Who would with care fome happy fiction frame, So mimicks truth, it looks the very fame; Not rais'd to force, or feign'd in nature's fcorn, But meant to grace, illuftrate, and adorn. Important truths ftill let your fables hold, And moral mysteries with art unfold. Ladies and beaux to pleafe, is all the task, But the sharp critic will inftruction ask.

(2) As veils tranfparent cover, but not hide, Such metaphors appear when right apply'd; When thro' the phrafe we plainly fee the fenfe, Truth, where the meaning's obvious, will dispense; The reader what in reafon's due, believes, Nor can we call that falfe, which not deceives. (3) Hyperboles, fo daring and fo bold, Difdaining bounds, are yet by rules control'd; Above the clouds, but ftill within our fight,

They nount with truth, and make a tow'ring flight,
Prefenting things impoffible to view,

They wander thro' incredible to true :
Falsehoods thus mix'd, like metals are refin'd,
And truth, like filver, leaves the drofs behind.

Thus Poetry has ample space to foar,
Nor needs forbidden regions to explore:
Such vaunts as his, who can with patience read,
Who thus defcribes his hero flain and dead :
(4) "Kill'd as * he was, infenfible of death,

"He ftill fights on, and scorns to yield his breath."
The noify Culverin o'ercharg'd, lets fly,
And burft unaiming in the rended sky:
Such frantic flights are like a madman's dream,
And nature suffers in the wild extreme.

The captive Cannibal weigh'd down with chains,
Yet braves his foes, reviles, provokes, difdains,
Of nature fierce, untameable, and proud,
He grins defiance at the gaping crowd,
And spent at laft, and fpeechlefs as he lies,

With looks ftill threatning, mocks their rage and dies,
This is the utmoft ftretch that Nature can,
And all beyond, is fulfome, falfe, and vain.

Beauty's the theme; fome nymph divinely fair
Excites the Mufe: let truth be even there :
As painters flatter, fo may poets too,
But to refemblance must be ever true.

(5)" The day that he was born, the Cyprian Queen
"Had like t' have dy'd thro' envy and thro' fpleen;
"The Graces in a hurry left the skies
"To have the honor to attend her eyes;
"And love, despairing in her heart a place,
"Would needs take up his lodging in her face. "
Tho' wrote by great Corneille, fuch lines as thefe,
Such civil nonfenfe fure could never please.
Waller, the best of all th' inspir'd train,
To melt the fair, inftructs the dying swain.

* Ariofto.

† Corneille.

(6) The Roman wit, who impionfly divides
His hero, and his gods to diff'rent fides,
I would condemn, but that in fpite of sense
Th' admiring world ftill ftands in his defence.
How oft, alas! the best of men in vain
Contend for bleflings which the worst obtain !
The Gods, permitting traitors to fucceed,
Become not parties in an impious deed:
And by the tyrant's murder, we may find
That Cato and the Gods were of a mind.

Thus forcing truth with fuch prepoft'róus praise,
Our characters we leffen, when we'd raise :
Like caftles built by magic art in air,
'That vanish at approach, fuch thoughts appear;
But rais'd on truth, by fome judicious hand,
As on a rock they shall for ages stand.

(7) Our King return'd, and banish'd peace reftor'd, The Mufe ran mad to fee her exil'd Lord; On the crack'd stage the bedlam heroes roar'd, And scarce could speak one reasonable word; Dryden himself, to pleafe a frantic age, Was forc'd to let his judgment toop to rage, To a wild audience he conform'd his voice, Comply'd to cuftom, but not err'd by choice: Deem then the people's, not the writer's fin, Almanfor's rage, and rants of Maximin ; That fury spent in each elaborate piece,

He vies for fame with ancient Rome and Greece.

Firft Mulgrave rofe, Rofcommon next, like light, To clear our darknefs, and to guide our flight; With steady judgment, and in lofty sounds, They gave us patterns, and they fet us bounds; The Stagirite and Horace laid afide, Inform'd by them, we need no foreign guide: Who feck from poetry a lafting name, May in their leflons learn the road to fame : But let the bold adventurer be sure That every line the test of truth endure; On this foundation may the fabric rife, Firm and unthaken, till it touch the skies.

From pulpits banifh'd, from the court, from love, Forfaken Truth feeks fhelter in the grove; Cherish, ye Mufes! the neglected fair,

And take into your train th' abandon'd wanderer.