The nimble-footed minutes ceas'd to run,

And urge the lazy hours on.
Time hung his unexpanded wings,
And all the fecret fprings

That carry on the year,

Stopp'd in their full career :

Then the aftonish'd moon,

Forgot her going down;
And paler grew,

The difmal fcene to view,

How through the trembling Pagan nation,
The Almighty ruin dealt, and ghaftly defolation.

But why, ah! why, O Sion, reigns
Wide wafting havoc o'er thy plains?
Ah! me, deftruction is abroad!

Vengeance is loofe, and wrath from God!
See! hofts of spoilers feize their prey!
See! flaughter marks in blood his way!

The nimble-footed minutes ceafe to run,
And urge the lazy hours on,
Time hangs his unexpanded wings,
And all the fecret fprings

That carry on the year

Stop in their full career;

At once th' aftonifh'd moon

Forgets her going down,

And paler grows,

To view th' amazing train of woes;

While through the trembling Pagan nation,

Th' Almighty ruin deals, and ghaftly defolation.

See!

See! how embattled Babylon

Like an unruly deluge rushes on!

Lo! the field with millions swarms!
I hear their fhouts! their clafhing arms!
Now the conflicting hosts engage,

With more than mortal rage!
Oh! heaven! I faint I die!
The yielding powers of Ifrael fly!
Now banner'd hofts furround the walls
Of Sion! now the finks, fhe falls!
Ah! Sion, how for thee I mourn !
What pangs for thee I feel!

Ah! how art thou become the Pagans' fcorn,
Lovely, unhappy Ifrael!

A shivering damp invades my heart,

A trembling horror fhoots through every part;
My nodding frame can scarce fuftain
Th' oppreffive load I undergo :
Speechlefs I figh! the envious woe
Forbids the very pleasure to complain :
Forbids my faultering tongue to tell
What pangs for thee I feel,

Lovely, unhappy Ifrael!

Yet though the fig-tree should no burthen bear,
Though vines delude the promife of the year,
Yet though the olive fhould not yield her oil,
Nor the parch'd glebe reward the pea fant's toil,
Though the tir'd ox beneath his labours fall,
And herds in millions perish from the stall;

Yet fhall my grateful strings
For ever praise thy name,

For ever thee proclaim,

Thee everlasting God, the mighty king of kings.

To BELINDA, on her Sicknefs and Recovery.

URE never pain fuch beauty wore,

SUR

Or look'd fo amiable before!

You graces give to a disease,

Adorn the pain, and make it please ;
Thus burning incenfe fheds perfumes,
Still fragrant as it still confumes.

Nor can even ficknefs, which difarms
All other nymphs, destroy your charms;
A thousand beauties you can fpare,
And ftill be faireft of the fair.

But fee! the pain begins to fly,
Though Venus bled, the could not die
See! the new Phoenix point her eyes,
And lovelier from her afhes rife :
Thus 1ofes, when the ftorm is o'er,
Draw beauties from th' inclement fhower.

Welcome ye hours! which thus repay What envious fickness ftole away! Welcome as those which kindly bring, And ufher in the joyous fpring;

That

That to the fmiling earth restore

The beauteous herb, and blooming flower,
And give her all the charms the loft

By wintery ftorms, and hoary frost!

And yet how well did fhe fuftain,
And greatly triumph o'er her pain !
So flowers, when blafting winds invade,
Breathe sweet, and beautifully fade.

Now in her cheeks, and radiant eyes,
New blushes glow, new lightnings rife;
Pehold a thousand charms fucceed,
For which a thousand hearts must bleed!
Brighter from her difeafe the fhines,
As fire the precious gold refines.

Thus when the filent grave becomes
Pregnant with life, as fruitful wombs ;
When the wide feas, and spacious earth,
Refign us to our second birth ;

Our moulder'd frame rebuilt affumes
New beauty, and for ever blooms;

And, crown'd with youth's immortal pride,
We angels rife, who mortals dy'd.

TO BELINDA, On her Apron embroidered with Arms and Flowers.

*

THE liftening trees Amphion drew

To dance from hills, where once they grew;
But you exprefs a power more great,
The flowers you draw not, but create.

Behold your own creation rife,
And fimile beneath your radiant eyes!
'Tis beauteous all! and yet receives
From you more graces than it gives.

But fay, amid the fofter charms
Of blooming flowers, what mean these arins ?
So round the fragrance of the rofe,
The pointed thorn, to guard it, grows.

But cruel you, who thus employ
Both arms and beauty to deftroy!
So Venus marches to the fray
In armour, formidably gay.

VARIATION.

*The lovely Flora paints the earth,
And calls the morning flowers to birth :
But you difplay a power more great;
She calls forth flowers, but you create.

It