Ah! would he fay

and then a figh would heave:

Ah Cynthia! sweeter than the breath of morn, Soft as the gentle breath that fans at eve,

Of thee bereft how fhall I live forlorn ?

Ah! what avails this sweetly folemn bow'r
That filent stream where dimpling eddies play;
Yon thymy bank bedeck'd with many a flow'r,

Where maple-tufts exclude the beam of day?

Robb'd of my love, for how can these delight,
Though lavish Spring her fmiles around has caft!
Despair, alas! that whelms the foul in night,
Dims the fad eye and deadens every taste.

As droops the lilly at the blighting gale;
Or* crimson-spotted cowflip of the mead,

Whose tender stalk (alas! their stalk so frail)
Some hafty foot hath bruis'd with heedless tread:

A mole cinque-fpotted: like the crimson drops

I' th' bottom of a cowflip.

Shakespear's Cymbeline, A& 3.

As droops the woodbine, when fome village hind'
Hath fell'd the fapling elm it fondly bound
No more it gadding dances in the wind,

But trails its fading beauties on the ground:

So droops my foul, dear maid, downcaft and fad,
For ever! ah! for ever torn from thee

Bereft of each sweet hope, which once it had,
When love, when treacherous love first smil❜d on me.

Return bleft days, return ye laughing hours,
Which led me up the rofeat fteep of youth;
Which strew'd my fimple path with vernal flow'rs,

And bade me court chafte Science and fair Truth,

Ye know, the curling breeze, or gilded fly
That idly wantons in the noon-tide air,

Was not fo free, was not fo gay as I,

For ah! I knew not then or love, or care.

Witnefs ye winged daughters of the year,
If e'er a figh had learnt to heave my breast!

If e'er my cheek was conscious of a tear,
'Till Cynthia came and rob'd my foul of reft!

O have you feen, bath'd in the morning dew,
The budding rofe its infant bloom display;
When firft its virgin tints unfold to view,

It shrinks and scarcely trusts the blaze of day.

So foft, fo delicate, fo fweet fhe came,

Youth's damask glow juft dawning on her cheek: I gaz'd, I figh'd, I caught the tender flame, Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with paffion, weak.

Yet not unpitied was my pain the while;
For oft befide yon fweet-briar in the dale,
With many a blush, with many a melting fmile,
She fate and liften'd to the plaintive tale.

Ah me! I fondly dreamt of pleasures rare,
Nor deem'd fo fweet a face with scorn could glow;
How could you cruel then pronounce despair,

Chill the warm hope, and plant the thorn of woe?

What though no treasures canker in my cheft,
Nor crowds of fuppliant vaffals hail me lord!
What though my roof can boast no princely gueft,

Nor furfeits lurk beneath my frugal board!

Yet

Yet should Content, that shuns the gilded bed,
With smiling Peace, and Virtue there forgot,
And rofe-lip'd Health, which haunts the straw-built shed,
With cherub Joy, frequent my little cot:

Led by chafte Love, the decent band should come,
O charmer would'st thou deign my roof to fhare?
Nor fhould the Mufes fcorn our fimple dome,
Or knit in mystic dance, the Graces fair.

The wood-land nymphs, and gentle fays, at eve Forth from the dripping cave and moffy dell, Should round our hearth fantaftic measures weave, And shield from mischief by their guardian spell.

Come then bright maid, and quit the city throng,
Have rural joys no charm to win the foul?

She proud, alas! derides my lowly song,
Scorns the fond vow, and fpurns the ruffet ftole.

Then Love begone, thy thriftless empire yield,
In youthful toils I'll lofe the unmanly pain:
With echoing horns I'll roufe the jocund field,
Urge the keen chace, and fweep along the plain.

Or

Or all in fome lone mofs-grown tow'r fublime
With midnight lamp I'll watch pale Cynthia round,
Explore the choiceft rolls of ancient Time,

And heal with Wisdom's balm my hapless wound.

Or else I'll roam- Ah no! that figh profound,
Tells me that stubborn love difdains to yield;
Nor flight, nor Wisdom's balm can heal the wound,
Nor pain forfake me in the jocund field.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X**

DIALOGUE to CHLORINDA.

S.

By Mr. ALSO P.

CEASE, Chlorinda, cease to chide me,

When my paffion I relate:

Why should kindness be denied me?
Why should love be pay'd with hate?

If the fruit of all my wifhes

Must be, to be treated fo;

What could you do more than this is

To your moft outrageous foe?

C. Simple