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S O N G

VI.

SONG IX. 1743.

VALENTINE'S DAY.

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The Attribute of VENUS.
ES; Fulvia is like Venus fair ;

Has all her bloom, and shape and air :
But still, to perfect every grace,
She wants the smile upon her face.
The crown majestic Juno wore ;
And Cynthia's brow the crescent bore,
An helmet mark'd Minerva's mien,
But smiles distinguish'd beauty's queen.
Her train was form'd of smiles and loves,
Her chariot drawn by gen left doves!
And from her zone, the nymph may find,
'Tis beauty's province to be kind.
Then smile, my fair; and all whose aim
Aspires to paint the Cypriap dame,
Or bid her breathe in living stone,
Shall take their forms from you alonc.

"IS said that ander distant kies,

Nor you the fact deny; What first attracts an Indian's eyes

Becomes his deity. Perhaps a lily, or a rose,

, I'hát shares the morning's tay, May to the waking swain disclose

The regen: of the day. Perhaps a plant in yonder grove,

Enrich'd with fragrant power, May tempt kis vagrant eyes to rove,

Where blooms the sovereign flower. Perch'd on the cedar's topmast bough, Ana gay

with gilded wings, Perchance, the patron of his vow,

Some artless linnet, sings. The swain surveys her pleas'd, afraid, Then low to earth he bends; And owns, upon her friendly aid,

His health, his life, depends : Vain futile idols, bird or flower;

To tempt a votary's prayer ! How would his humble homage tower,

Should he behold my fair!
Yes--might the pagan's waking eyes,

O'er Flavia's beauty range,
He there would fix his lasting choice,

Nor dare, nor wish to chnage.

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THE
"HE lovely Delia smiles again;

That killing frown has left her brow: Can she forgive my jealous pain,

And give me back my angry vow? Love is an April's doubtful day;

A while we fee the tempeft lower ; Anon the radient heaven survey,

And quite forget the flitting shower. The flowers, that hung their languid head,

Are burnish'd by the transient rains ; The vines their wonted tendrils spread,

and double verdurė gilds the plains. The sprightly birds, that droop'd no lefs

Beneath the power of rain and wind, lo every raptur'd note, express

The joy I feel-when thou art kind.

SONG X. 1743.

T'has from there fountains, bear my dear,

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W

THEN bright Roxana treads the green,

In all the pride of dress and mien;
Averse to freedom, love, and play,
The dazzling rival of the day:
None other beauty Itrikes mine eye,
The lilies droop, the roses dic.
But when, disclaiming art, the fair
Assumes a soft engaging air;
Mild as the opening morn of May,
Familiar, friendly, free, and gay;
The scene improves, where'er she goes,
More sweetly smile the piuk and rose
o lovely maid! propitious hear,
Nor deem thy faepherd insincere;
Piry a wild illusive flame,
That varies objects still the same;
And let their very changes prove
The never- vary'd forct of love.

A little space is given ; in vain :
She robs my fight, and shuns the plain.
A little space, for me to prove
My boundless flame, my endless love;
And, like the train of vulgar hours,
Invidious time that space de rours.
Near yonder beech is Delia's way,
On that I gaze che livelong day;
No eastern monarch's dazzling pride
Shall drąw my longing eyes alide.
The chief that knows of succours nigh,
And sees hia mangled legions die,
Casts not a more impaticut glance,
To see the loitering aids advance.
Not more, the school-boy that expires
far from his native home, requires
To see some friend's familiar face,
or meet a parent's last embrace

She

She comes-but ah! what crowds of beaux
In radiant bands my fair enclose!
Oh ! better had'It thou shun'd the green,
Oh, Delia ! better far unseen.
Methinks, by all my tender fears,
By all my fighs, by all my tears,
I might from torture now be free-
'Tis more than death to part with thee!

But if once a smooth accent delighted my ear,
I lould wish, unawares, that my Delia might

hear
With fairelt ideas my bosom I stor'd,
Allafive to none but the nymph I ador'd !
And the more I with study my fancy refin'd,
The deeper impression she made on my mind.
So long as of nature the charms I pursue,
I ftill must my Delia's dear image renew :
The Graces have yielded with Delia to rove,
And the Muses are all in alliance with Love,

SONG XI. 1744.

ERHAPS it is not love, said I,

nigh ;

SONG XIV. The ROSE-BUD.

sad ;

Where wit and sense like her's agree,
One may be pleas'd, and yet be free.
The beauties of her polish'd mind,
It needs no lover's eye to find ;
The hermit freezing in his cell,
Might wish the gentle Flavia well.
It is not love-averse to bear
The servile chain that lovers wear;
Let, let me all my fears remove,
My doubts difpel--it is not love-
Oh! when did wit so brightly shine
Iu any form less fair than thine ?
It is it is love's subtle fire,
And under friend hip lurks deîre.

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EE, Daphne, see, Florelio cry'd, Yon fhelter'd rose, how safe conceal'd! How quickly blasted, when reveal'd! The fun with warm attractive rays Tempts it to wanton in the blaze : A gale succeeds from Eastern skies, And all its blushing radiance dies. So you, my fair, of charms divine, Will quit the plains, too fond to shine Where fame's transporting rays allure, Though here more happy, more secure. The breath of some neglected maid Shall make you sigh you left the shade ; A breath to beauty's bloom unkind, As, to the rose, an ea:tern wind. The nymph reply'd-you first, my Swain, Confine your sonnets to the plain ; One envious tongue alike difarms, You, of your wit, me, of my charms. What is, unknown, the poet's skill? Or what, unhcard, the tuneful thrill? What, unadmir'd, a charming mien, Or what the rose's blush, unseen?

SON Ġ XII. 1744.

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'ER desert plains, and rushy meers,

And wither'd heaths, I rove; Where tree, nor spire, nor cot appears,

I pass to meet my love,
But though my path were damask'd o'er,

With beauties e'er so fine ;
My busy thoughts would fly before

To fix alone on thine,
No fir-crown'd hills could give delight,

No palace please mine eye:
No pyramids aerial height,

Where mouldering monarchs lie. Unmov’d, should Eastern kings advance ;

Could I the pageant fee : Splendour might catch one scornful glance, Not steal one thought from thee.

SONG XV. WINTER, 1746.

more, ye warbling birds, rejoice :

SONG XIII. The SCHOLAR'S RELAPSE. B¥ the fide of a grove, at the font of a hill, Where whisper'd the beech, and where mur

mur'd the rill; I vow'd to the Muses my time and my care, Since neither could win me the smiles of my fair. Free I rang'd like the birds, like the birds free I

fung, And Delia's lov'd name scarce escap'd from my

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YES, thefe are the scenes where with Iris I

SON Ġ XVI. But when, disdaining art, the fair

Affümes a soft, engaging air;

Mild as the opening morn of May,
DAPHNE'S VISIT.

And as the feather'd warblers gay:

The scene improves where'er she goes, E

More sweetly smiles the pink and rose. with melting lay salute my love:

O lovely maid! propitious hear, My Daphne with your notes detain :

Nor think thy Damon insincere. Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.

Pity my wild delusive frame: Ye flowers! before her footsteps rise;

For though the flowers are still the same, Display at once your brightest dyes ;

To me thy languish, or improve,
That she your opening charms may fee :

And plainly tell me that I love.
Or what were all your charms to me?
Kind Zephyr ! brush each fragrant flower,
And thed its odours round my bower:
Or never morc, O gentle wind,
Shaill, from thee, refreshmeat find.

SONG XIX.
Ye streams! if e'er your banks I lov'd
If e'er your native sounds improv'd,

Imitated from the French.
May each soft murmur foothe my fair!
Or, oh! 'twill deepen my despair.

Es, these are the scenes where with Iris I
And thou, my grot ! whose lonely bounds
The melancholy pine surrounds,

But short was her sway for so lovely a maid! May 1 aphne praise thy peaceful glnom!

In the bloom of her youth to a cloyster she run; Or thou shalt prove her Damon's comb.

In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove
So fatal co beauty, so killing to love !-

Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs, and the
SONG XVII,

plains; Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my

pains; Written in a collection of Bacchanalian

How
Songs.

many soft moments I spent in this grove! How fair was my nymph! and how fervent ny

love! DIEU, ye jovial youths, who join

Be still though, my heart ! thine emotion give To plunge old care in floods of wine ;

o'er; And, as your dazzling eye-bails roll,

Remember, the season of love is no more.
Disčern him struggling in the bowl,
Not yet is hope so wholly flown,

With her how I fray'd amid fountains and bow.
Not yet is thought so tedious grown,
But, limpid Itream and shady tree

Or, loiter'd behind and collected the flowers ! Rerain, as yet, some sweets for me.

Then breathless with ardour my fair one pursued, And see through yonder filent grove,

And to think with what kindnes ny garland the

view'd! See yonder dots my Daphne rove; With pride her footsteps I pursue,

But be still, my fond heart! this emotion give

o'er! And bid your frantic joys adieu.

rain would's thou forget thou must love her no The fole confusion I admire, Is that my Daphne's eyes inspire : I scorn the madness I aprove, And value reason next to love

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But now, fir.ce old Eugenio dy'd The chief of poets, and the prideNow, meaner bards in rain aspire To raise their voice, to tune their lyre ! Their lovely season, now, is o’er ! Thy notes, Florelio, please no moie! No more Asteria's smiles are seen! Adieu !-the sweets of Barel 's-green!

Come then, resume thy chaming lyre,

And sing some patriot's worth sublime, Whilft I in fields of soft defire

Consume my fair and fruitless prime ; Whose reed aspires but to display The flame that burns me pight and day. O come! the dryads of the woods

Shall daily foothe thy studious mind, The blue-ey'd nymphs of yonder floods

hall meet and court thee to be kind; And l'anie fits listening for thy lạys To swell her trump with Lucio's praise. Like me, the plover fondly tries

To lure the sporsmen from her nest, And futtering on with anxious cries,

Too plainly fhows her tortur'd breast : O let him, conscious of her care, Pity her pains, and learn to spare.

The HALCYON.

WHXCc'er the verdant banks of Ooze

A PASTORAL ODE,

To the Right Hon. Sir Richard Lyttleton.

HY

Does yonder halcyon speed so fast? 'Tis all because she would not lose

Her favourite calm that will not last. The sun with azure paints the skies,

The stream reflects each flowery spray: And frugal of her time she Aies

To take her fill of love and play.
See her, when rugged Boreas blows,

Warm in some rocky cell remain;
To seek for pleasure, well she knows,

Would only then enhance the pain.
Descend, she cries, thou hated shower,

Deform my limpid waves to-day, For I have chose a fairer hour

o take my fill of love and play. You too, my Silvia, sure will own

Life's azure seasons (wiftly roll:
And when our youth our health is flown,

To think of love but shocks the foul.
Could Damon but deserve thy charms,

And thou art Damon's only theme; He'd fly as quick to Delia's arms,

As yonder halcyon tkims the stream.

O DE.

T
HE morn dispens'd a dubious light

A fullen mist had stol'n from sight
Each pleasing vale and hill ;
When Damon left his humble bowers,
To guard his flocks, tu fence his flowers,

Or cheek his wandering rill.
Though school'd from fortune's paths to fly,
The swain beneath cach lowering sky,

Would oft his fate bemoan;
That he in sylvan ihades, forlorn !
Must waste his chearless ev'n and morn.

Nor prais'd, nor lov'd, nor known.
No friend to fame's obftreperous noise,
Yet to the whispers of her voice,

Soft murmuring, not a foe :
The pleasures he throngh choice declin'd,
When gloomy fogs depress’d his mind,

It griev'd him to forego.
Griev'd him to lurk the lakes beside,
Where coots in rushy dingles hide,

And moorcocks fl:un the day;
While caitiff bitterns, undismay'l,
Remark the swain's familiar fhade,

And scorn to quit their prey.
But fee, the radiant fun once more
The brightning face or heaven restore,

And raise the doubtful dawn;
And, more to gild his rural sphere,
At once the brightese train appear,

That ever trod the lawn.
Amazement chill'd the shepherd's frame,
To think * Bridgewater's honour'd nanie
Should grace his rustic cell ;

That

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O dear my Lucic is to me,

So well our minds and tempers blend; That seasons may for ever flee,

And ne'er divide me from my friend;
But let the favour'd boy forbear
To tempt with love my only fair.
O Lycon, born when every Muse,

When every Grace benigvarat smil'd, With ali a parent's breast could chuse

To bles; her lov'd, her only child: "Tis thine so richly grac'd to prove More noble cares, than cares of love. Together ve from early youth

Have trof the flowerg tracks of time, Together mla'd in search of truth,

Ö'er learnel fage, or bard sublime ; And well thy LItur'd breast I know, What wonderou treasure it cat dow.

* The Duchess, married to Sir R. Lyttleton.

That se, on all whose motions wait
Distinction, title, rank, and state,

Should rove where shepherds dwell.
But true it is, the generous mind,
By candour (way'd, by talle refin'd,

Will nought but vice disdain ;
Nor will the breast where fan glows
Deem cvery flower a weed that blows

Amid the desert plain.
Befeems it such, with honour crown'd,
To deal its lucid beams around,

Nor equal meed receive :
At most such garlands from the field,
Aa cowllips, pinks, and panties yield,

And rural hands can weave, :
Yet strive ye shepherds, strive to find,
And weave the fairelt of the kind,

The prime of all the spring i
If haply thus yon lovely fair
May round their temples deign to wear

The trivial wreaths you bring.
O how the peaceful halcyons play d
Where'er the consciouz lake betray'd

Athenia's placid miesı ;
How did the sprightlier linnets throng,
Where Paphia's charms requir'd the song,

'Mid hazel copses green :
Lo, Dartmouth on those banks reclin'd,
While busy fancy calls to mind

The glories of his line ;
Methinks my cottage rears its head,
The ruin'd walls of yonder thed,

As through enchantment, shine. ,
But who the nymph that guides their way?
Could ever nymph descend to itray

Prom Hagley's fam'd retreat ?
Else, by the blooming features fair
The faultless make, the matchless air,

'[were.Cynthia's form compleat. So would some cuberose delight, That ftruck the pilgrim's wandering fight

'Mid lonely delerts drear ;
All as at eve, the sovereign flower
Dispenses round its balmy power,

Aud crowns the fragrant year.
Ah, now no more, the shepherd cry'd,
Muit I ambition's charms deride,

Her subtle force disown,
No more of fawns or fairies dream,
While fancy, near each crystal stream,

Shall paint these forms alone.
By low-brow'd rock, or pathless mead,
I deem'd that splendour ne'er shou d lead

My dazzled eyes astray ;
But who alas ! will dare contend,
If beauty add, or merit blend

Its more illustrious ray ?
Nor is it long-O plaintive (wain !
Since Guernsey faw without disdain,

Vihers, hid in woodlands green,

The * partner of his early days,
And once the rival of his praise

Had stol'n through life unseen,
Scarce faded is the vernal flower,
Since Stamford left his honour'd bower

To smile familiar here :
form’d by nature to disclose
How fair that courtesey which flows

From social warmth sincere.
Nor yet have many moons decay'd,
Since Pollio fought this lonely shade,

Admir'd this rural maze:
The noblest breast that virtue fires,
The Graces love, the Muse inspires,

Might pant for Pollio's praise.
Say Thomson here was known to rest,
For him yon vernal seat I drest,

Ah! never to return !
In place of wit, and melting strains,
And social mirth, it now remains
'To
weep

belide his urn. Come then, my Lælius, come once more, And fringe the melancholy shore

With roses and with bays, While I each wayward fate accuse, 'That envy'd his impartial Mule

To lip. your early praise.
While Philo, to whose favour'd fight,
Antiquity, with full delight,

Her inmost wealth displays;
Beneath yon ruins moulder'd wall
Shall muse, and with hia freind recal.

The pomp of ancient days,
Here too shall Conway's nam appears
He prais'd the stream so lovely clear,

That Thone the reeds among;
Yer clearness could it rot disclose,
To match the rhetoric that flows

From Conway s polish'd tongue. Ev'n Pitt, whose fervent periods roll Reliftless ! through the kindling foul

Of fenates, councils, kings !
Though form'd for courts, vouchfaf d to rove
Inglorious, through the shepherd's grove,

And ope his ba iful iprmgs.
But what can courts discover more,
Than these rude haunts have seen before,

Each fount and shady tree?
Have not these trees and fountains scen
i he pride of courts, the winning micn.

o peerless Aylesbury?
And Grenville, shę whose, radiant eyes,
Have mark d by low gradation rise

The princely piles of Stow;
Yet prais’d these unembellith'd woods,
And smil'd to see the babbling floods'

Through self-worn mazes slow.

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