Princess ador'd and lov'd! if verse can give
A deathless name, thine shall for ever live;
Invok'd where-e'er the British lion roars,
Extended as the seas that gird the British shores.
The wise immortals in their seats above,
To crown their labours, still appointed Love;
Phoebus enjoy'd the goddess of the sea,
Alcides had Omphale, James has thee.
O happy James! content thy mighty mind,
Grudge not the world, for still thy queen is kind,
To lie but at whose feet more glory brings,
Than 'tis to tread on sceptres, and on kings:
Secure of empire in that beauteous breast,
Who would not give their crowns to be so blest?
Was Helen half so far, so form'd for joy,
Well chose the Trojan, and well burnt was Troy.
But ah! what strange vicissitudes of fate,
What chance attends on every worldly state?
As when the skies were sack'd, the conquer'd gods,
Compell'd from Heaven, forsook their blest abodes;
Wandering in woods, they hid from den to den,
And sought their safety in the shapes of men:
As when the winds with kindling flames conspire,
The blaze increases, as they fan the fire;
From roof to roof the burning torrent pours,
Nor spares the palace, nor the loftiest towers:
Or, as the stately pine, erecting high
Her lofty branches, shooting to the sky,
If riven by the thunderbolt of Jove,
Down falls at once the pride of all the grove,
Level with lowest shrubs lies the tall head,
That, rear'd aloft, as to the clouds was spread.
So *
But cease, my Muse, thy colours are too faint,
Hide with a veil those griefs which none can paint;
This Sun is set.--But see in bright array
What hosts of heavenly light recruit the day.
Love, in a shining galaxy, appears
Triumphant still, and Grafton leads the stars.
Ten thousand Loves, ten thousand several ways
Invade adoring crowds, who die to gaze;
Her eyes resistless as the Syrens' voice,
So sweet's the charm, we make our fate our choice.
Who most resembles her let next be nam'd,
Villiers, for wisdom and deep judgment fain'd,
Of a high race, victorious Beauty brings
To grace our courts, and captivate our kings.

*

*

*

*

*

*

With what delight my Muse to Sandwich flies!
Whose wit is piercing as her sparkling eyes:
Ah! how she mounts, and spreads her airy wings,
And tunes her voice, when she of Ormond sings!
Of radiant. Ormond, only fit to be
The successor of beauteous Ossory.

Richmond's a title, that but nam'd, implies
Majestic graces, and victorious eyes;
Fair Villers first, then haughty Stuart came,
And Brudenal now no less adorns the name.
Dorset already is immortal made
In Prior's verse, nor needs a second aid.
By Bentinck and fair Rutenberg we find,
That Beauty to no climate is contin'd.

Rupert, of royal blood, with modest grace,
Blushes to hear the triumphs of her face.

Not Helen with St. Albans might compare: Nor let the Muse omit Scroop, Holms, and Hare: Hyde, Venus is; the Graces are Kildare.

Countess of Orkney.

Soft and delicious as a southern sky,

Are Dashwood's smiles; when Darnley frowns we die.

Careless, but yet secure of conquest still,
Lu'son 3, unaiming, never fails to kill;
Guiltless of pride to captivate, or shine,
Bright without art, she wounds without design:
But Wyndham like a tyrant throws the dart,
And takes a cruel pleasure in the smart,
Proud of the ravage that her beauties make,
Delights in wounds, and kills for killing sake;
Asserting the dominion of her eyes,
As heroes fight for glory, not for prize.

The skilful Muse's earliest care has been
The praise of never-fading Mazarine;
The Poet and his theine, in spite of Time,
For ever young, enjoy an endless prime.
With charms so numerous Myra does surprize,
The lover knows not by which dart he dies;
So thick the volley, and the wound so sure,
No flight can save, no remedy can cure.

Yet dawning in her infancy of light,
O see! another Brudenel, heavenly bright,
Born to fulfil the glories of her line,
And fix Love's empire in that race divine.

Fain would my Muse to Cecil 6 bend her sight, But turns astonish'd from the dazzling light, Nor dares attempt to climb the steepy flight.

O Kneller like thy pictures were my song, Clear like thy paint, and like thy pencil strong; These matchless Beauties should recorded be, Immortal in my verse, as in thy Gallery 7.

TO THE

COUNTESS OF NEWBOURG,

INSISTING EARNESTLY TO BE TOLD WHO I MEANT
BY MYRA.

WITH Myra's Charms, and my extreme despair,
Long had my Muse amaz'd the reader's ear,
My friends, with pity, heard the mournful sound,
And all enquir'd from whence the fatal wound;
Th' astonish'd world beheld an endless flame,
Ne'er to be quench'd, unknowing whence it came :
So scatter'd fire from scorch'd Vesuvius flies,
Unknown the source from whence those flames arise:
Ægyptian Nile so spreads its waters round,.
O'erflowing far and near, its head unfound.

Myra herself, touch'd with the moving song, Would needs be told to whom those plaints belong, My timorous tongue, not daring to confess, Trembling to name, would fain have had her guess; Impatient of excuse, she urges still,

Persists in her demand, she must, she will;
If silent, I am threaten'd with her hate;
If I obey-Ah! what may be my fate?
Uncertain to conceal, or to unfold;

She smiles-the goddess smiles-and I grow bold.

2. Lady Catherine Darnley, dutchess of Buckingham.

Lady Gower.

4 Monsieur St. Evremont.

5 Lady Molyneux.

6 Lady Ranelagh.

7 The Gallery of Beauties in Hampton-Court.

drawn by sir Godfrey Kneller.

TO

MYRA.

SINCE truth and constancy are vain,
Since neither love, nor sense of pain,
Nor force of reason can persuade,
Then let example be obey'd.

In courts and cities, could you see
How well the wanton fools agree;
Were all the curtains drawn, you'd find
Not one, perhaps, but who is kind.

Minerva, naked from above,
With Venus, and the wife of Jove,
Exposing ev'ry beauty bare,
Descended to the Trojan heir;
Yet this was she whom poets name
Goddess of Chastity and Fame.

Penelope, her lord away,
Gave am'rous audiences all day;
Now round the bowl the suitors sit,
With wine, provoking mirth and wit,
Then down they take the stubborn bow,
Their strength, it seems, she needs must know.
Thus twenty chearful winters past,
She's yet immortaliz'd for chaste.

Smile Myra, then, reward my flame,
And be as much secure of fame;
By all those matchless beauties fir'd,
By my own matchless love inspir'd;
So will I sing, such wonders write,
That when th' astonish'd world shall cite
A nymph of spotless worth and fame,
Myra shall be th' immortal name.

SONG TO MYRA.

FORSAKEN of my kindly stars,

Within this melancholy grove

I waste my days and nights in tears,
A victim to ingrateful Love.

The happy still untimely end,

Death flies from grief, or why should I So many hours in sorrow spend,

Wishing, alas! in vain to die?

Ye powers, take pity of my pain,
This, only this is my desire;
Ah! take from Myra her disdain,
O let me with this sigh expire.

That without hope, 'twou'd die as soon,
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 storms are bred, And grow in spite of winds, and spread The more the tempest tears and shakes My love, the deeper root it takes.

VI.

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

VII.

O for what crime is my torn heart
Condemn'd to suffer deathless smart?
Like sad Prometheus, thus to lie
In endless pain, and never die.

PHYLLIS DRINKING.

I.

MYRA. I.

PREPAR'D to rail, resolv'd to part,
When I approach'd the perjur'd fair,
What is it awes my timorous heart?
Why does my tongue forbear?
II.

With the least glance, a little kind,

Such wond rous pow'r have Myra's charms, She calms my doubts, enslaves my mind, And all my rage disarms.

III. Forgetful of her broken vows,

When gazing on that form divine, Her injur'd vassal trembling bows, Nor dares her slave repine.

THE ENCHANTMENT.

IN IMITATION OF THEOCRITUS.

Mix, mix the philters, quick-she flies, she flies.
Deaf to my call, regardless of my cries.

Are vows so vain? could oaths so feeble prove?
Ah! with what ease she breaks those chains of Love!
Whom Love with all his force had bound in vain,
Let charms compel, and magic rites regain.

Begin, begin, the mystic spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
Queen of the night, bright empress of the stars,
The friend of Love, assist a lover's cares;
And thou, infernal Hecate, be nigh,

At whose approach fierce wolves affrighted fly:
Dark tombs disclose their dead, and hollow cries
Echo from under ground-Arise, arise.

Begin, begin, the mystic spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
As, crackling in the fire, this laurel lies,
So, struggling in love's flame, her lover dies;
It bursts, and in a blaze of light expires,
So may she burn, but with more lasting 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 she melt, and never more grow cold.

ance,

With forces united, bid resistless defiance,

By the touch of her lips the wine sparkles higher, And her eyes, by her drinking, redouble their fire. II.

Her cheeks glow the brighter, recruiting their colour,

As flowers by sprinkling revive with fresh odour; Each dart dipt in wine gives a wound beyond curing,

And the liquor, like oil, makes the flame more enduring.

III.

Then Phyllis, begin, let our raptures abound, And a kiss, and a glass, be still going round, Relieving each other, our pleasures are lasting, And we never are cloy'd, yet are ever a tasting.

And hardest hearts by love are melted down.
Begin, begin, the mystic spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
As with impetuous motion whirling round,
This magic wheel still moves, yet keeps its ground,
Ever returning, so may she come back,
And never more the appointed round forsake.

Begin, begin, the mystic spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
Diana, hail! all hail! most welcome thou,
To whom th' infernal king and judges bow;
O thou, whose heart the power of Hell disarms,
Upon a faithless woman try thy charms.
Hark! the dogs howl, she comes, the goddess comes,
Sound the loud trump, and beat our brazen drums.
Begin, begin, the mystic spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
How calm 's the sky! how undisturb'd the deep!
Nature is husht, the very tempests sleep;

The drowsy winds breathe gently thro' the trees,
And silent on the beach, repose the seas:
Love only wakes; the storm that tears my breast
For ever rages, and distracts my rest:
O Love! relentless Love! tyrant accurst,
In deserts bred, by cruel tigers nurs'd!

Begin, begin, the mystic spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
This ribbon, that once bound her lovely waist,
O that my arms might gird her there as fast!
Smiling she 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 kist, and so preserv'd-thus-thus I tear.
O Love! why dost thou thus delight to rend
My soul with pain? Ah! why torment thy friend?
Begin, begin, the mystic spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
Thrice have I sacrific'd, and, prostrate, thrice
Ador'd: assist, ye powers, the sacrifice.
Whoe'er he is whom now the fair beguiles
With guilty glances, and with perjur'd smiles,
Malignant vapours blast his impious head,

Ye Lightnings scorch him, thunder strike him dead;
Horror of conscience all his slumbers break,
Distract his rest, as love keeps me awake;
If married, may his wife an Helen be,
And curs'd, and scorn'd, like Menelaus, he.
Begin, begin, the mystic spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
These 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 soul is ever hovering round.
Haste, and obey; and binding be the spell:
Here ends my charm; O Love! succeed 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,
Ease thy prest heart, and give thy sorrows vent:
Whence sprang, and how began these griefs, declare;
How much thy love, how cruel thy despair.
Ye Moon and Stars, by whose auspicious light

As melted gold preserves its weight the same,
So burnt my love, nor wasted in the flame.
And now, unable to support the strife,
A glimmering hope recalls departing life:
My rival dying, I no longer grieve,

Since I may ask, and she with honour give.

Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart, Its killing anguish, and its secret smart. Witness, ye Hours, with what unwearied care, From place to place I still pursu'd the fair; Nor was occasion to reveal my flame, Slow to my succour, for it kindly came, It came, it came, that moment of delight, O gods! and how I trembled at the sight!

Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart, Its killing anguish, and its secret smart. Dismay'd, and motionless, confus'd, amaz'd, Trembling I stood, 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 sounds, and broken accents came, Imperfect, as discourses in a dream.

Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart, Its killing anguish, and its secret smart. Soon she divin'd what this confusion meant, And guess'd with ease the cause of my complaint. My tongue emboldening as her looks were mild, At length I told my griefs-and still she smil'd. O Syren! Syren! fair deluder, say Why would you tempt to trust, and then betray? So faithless now, why gave you hopes before? Alas! you should have been less kind, or more. Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart, Its killing anguish, and its secret smart. Secure of innocence, I seek to know From whence this change, and my misfortunes grow, Rumour is loud, and every voice proclaims Her violated faith, and conscious flames : Can this be true? Ah! flattering mischief speak; Could you make vows, and in a moment break?

| And can the space so very narrow be Betwixt a woman's oath, and perjury? O Jealousy! all other ills at first

Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its secret smart.
Too late for hope, for my repose too soon

I saw, and lov'd: Her heart engag'd, was gone;
A happier man possess'd whom I adore;
O! I should ne'er have seen, or seen before.
Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its secret smart.
What shall I do? Shall I in silence bear,
Destroy myself, or kill the ravisher?
Die, wretched lover, die; but O! beware,
Hurt not the man who is belov'd by her;
Wait for a better hour, and trust thy Fate,
Thou seek'st her love, beget not then her hate.
Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its secret smart.
My life consuming with eternal grief,
From herbs, and spells, I seek a vain relief;
To every wise magician I repair
In vain, for still I love, and I despair.
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 secret smart.

Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart, Its killing anguish, and its secret smart. Ungrateful Myra! urge me thus no more, Nor think me tame, that once so long I bore; If passion, dire revenge, or black despair, Should once prevail beyond what man can bear, Who knows what I? Ah! feeble rage, and vain! With how secure a brow she mocks my pain: Thy heart, fond lover, does thy threats belie, Canst thou hurt her, for whom thou yet wouldst die? Nor durst she thus thy just resentment brave, But that she knows how much thy soul's her slave. But see! Aurora, rising with the Sun, Dissolves my charm, and frees th' enchanted Moon; My spells no longer bind at sight 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 shunn'd, we must endure, Death, and a broken heart 's a ready cure. Cynthia, farewell, go rest thy wearied light, I must for ever wake-We'll meet again at night.

THE VISION.

In lonely walks, distracted by despair,
Shunning mankind, and torn with killing care,
My eyes o'erflowing, and my frantic mind
Rack'd with wild thoughts, swelling with sighs the
wind;

Through paths untrodden, day and night I rove,
Mourning the fate of my successless love.
Who most desire 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 seem'd to him, would be
Pity, relief, and happiness to me.

When will my sorrows end? in vain, in vain
I call to Heaven, and tell the gods my pain;
The gods, averse, like Myra, to my prayer,
Consent to doom, whom she denies to spare.
Why do I seck for foreign aids, when I
Bear ready by my side the power to die?
Be keen, my sword, and serve thy master well,
Heal wounds with wounds, and love with death
repel.

Straight up I rose, and to my aking breast,
My bosom bare, the ready point I prest;
When lo astonish'd, an unusual light,
Pierc'd the thick shade, 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 sat blooming on his face.
Trembling I listen, prostrate on the ground,

His breath perfumes the grove, and music's in the sound 1.

"Cease, lover, cease, thy tender heart to vex, In fruitless plaints of an ungrateful sex. In Fate's eternal volumes it is writ, That women ever shall be foes to wit. With proper arts their sickly minds command, And please 'em with the things they understand; With noisy fopperies their hearts assail, Renounce all sense; how should thy songs prevail, When I, the god of wit, so oft could fail? Remember me, and in my story find How vainly merit pleads to womankind : I, by whom all things shine, who tune the spheres, Create the day, and gild the night with stars; Whose youth and beauty, from all ages past, Sprang with the world, and with the world shall last. How oft with fruitless tears have I implor'd Ungrateful nymphs, and though a god, ador'd? When could my wit, my beauty, or my youth, Move a hard heart? or, mov'd, secure its truth? "Here a proud nymph, with painful steps I chase, The winds out-flying in our nimble race; Stay, Daphne, stay.-In vain, in vain I try To stop her speed, redoubling at my cry, O'er craggy rocks, and rugged hills she climbs, And tears on pointed flints her tender limbs : 'Till caught at length, just as my arms I fold, Turn'd to a tree she yet escapes my hold.

"In my next love, a diff'rent fate I find, Ah! which is worse, the false, or the unkind?

1 Apollo.

Forgetting Daphne, I Coronis 2 chose,
A kinder nymph-too kind for my repose:
The joys I give, but more provoke her breast,
She keeps a private drudge to quench the rest ;
How, and with whom, the very birds proclaim
Her black pollution, and reveal my shame.
Hard lot of beauty! fatally bestow'd,
By different ways they bring us equal pain,
Or given to the false, or to the proud;
The false betray us, and the proud disdain.
Scorn'd and abus'd, from mortal loves I fly,
To seek 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, confessing warm desires,
She summons Heaven and Earth to quench her fires,
Me she excludes; and I in vain adore,
Who neither god nor man refus'd before;
Vulcan, the very monster of the skies,
Vulcan she takes, the god of wit denies.

"Then cease to murmur at thy Myra's pride,
Whimsy, not Reason, is the female guide:
The fate, of which their master does complain,
Is of bad omen to th' inspired train.>
What vows have fail'd? Hark how Catullus mourns,
How Ovid weeps, and slighted Gallus burns;
In melting strains see gentle Waller bleed,
Unmov'd she heard, what none unmov'd can read.
And thou, who oft with such ambitious choice,
What profit thy neglected zeal repays?
Hash rais'd to Myra thy aspiring voice,
Ah what return? Ungrateful to thy praise?
"Change, change thy style, with mortal rage re-
Unjust disdain, and pride oppose to scorn;
Search all the secrets of the fair and young,
And then proclaim, soon shall they bribe thy tongue;
The sharp detractor with success assails,
Sure to be gentle to the man that rails;
Women, like cowards, tame to the severe,
Are only fierce when they discover fear."

[turn

Thus spake the god; and upward mounts in air In just resentment of his past despair. Provok'd to vengeance, to my aid I call The Furies round, and dip my pen in gall: Not one shall 'scape of all the cozening sex, Vex'd shall they be, who so delight to vex. In vain I try, in vain to vengeance move My gentle Muse, so us'd to tender love; Turns all to soft complaint, and amorous flight. Such magic rules my heart, whate'er I write "Begone, fond thoughts, begone, be bold," said I, "Satire 's thy theme"-In vain again I try, So charming Myra to each sense appears, My soul adores, my rage dissolves in tears.

So the gall'd lion, smarting with his wound, Threatens his foes, and makes the forest sound, And tears his side with more provoking smart, With his strong teeth he bites the bloody dart, Till, having spent his voice in fruitless cries, He lays him down, breaks his proud heart, and dies.

ADIEU L'AMOUR. HERE end my chains, and thraldom cease, If not in joy, I'll live at least in peace ;

2 A nymph beloved by Apollo, but at the same time had a private intrigue with one Ischis, which was discovered by a crow.