то SLEEP.

ELEGY.

O Sleep! thou flatterer of happy minds,

How foon a troubled breast thy falsehood finds!

Thou common friend, officious in thy aid, Where no distress is shown, nor want betray'd: But oh, how fwift, how fure thou art to shun The wretch, by fortune or by love undone! Where are thy gentle dews, thy fofter powers, Which us'd to wait upon my midnight hours? Why doft thou cease thy hovering wings to spread, With friendly shade around my restless bed? Can no complainings thy compaffion move? Is thy antipathy so strong to love!

O no! thou art the prefperous lover's friend, And dost uncall'd his pleasing toils attend. With equal kindness, and with rival charms, Thy slumbers lull him in his fair-one's arms; Or from her bosom he to thine retires, Where footh'd with ease the panting youth refpires, Till foft repose restoře his drooping sense, And Rapture is reliev'd by Indolence. But oh, what fortune does the lover bear, Forlorn by thee, and haunted by Despair! From racking thoughts by no kind slumber freed, But painful nights his joyless days fucceed..

But

But why, dull god, do I of thee complain?
Thou didst not cause, nor canst thou ease my pain.

Forgive what my distracting grief has faid;

I own, unjustly I thy floth upbraid.

For oft I have thy proffer'd aid repell'd,

And my reluctant eyes from rest with-held; Implor'd the Muse to break thy gentle chains, And fung with Philomel my nightly strains. With her I fing, but cease not with her fong, For more enduring woes my days prolong. The morning lark to mine accords his note, And tunes to my distress his warbling throat : Each fetting and each rising sun I mourn, Wailing alike his absence and return. And all for thee---what had I well-nigh faid? Let me not name thee, thou too-charming maid $ No---as the wing'd musicians of the grove, Th' associates of my melody and love, In moving found alone relate their pain, And not with voice articulate complain; So shall my Muse my tuneful forrows fing, And lose in air her name from whom they spring. O may no wakeful thoughts her mind molest, Soft be her flumbers, and fincere her rest: For her, O Sleep, thy balmy sweets prepare; The peace I lofe for her, to her transfer. Hush'd as the falling dews, whose noifeless showers Imperle the folded leaves of evening flowers, Steal on her brow: and as those dews attend, Till warn'd by waking day to re-afcend,

I

So

So wait thou for her morn; then, gently rife,
And to the world restore the day-break of her eyes.

TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER,

OCCASIONED BY L Y's PICTURE.

1 Yield, O Kneller, to fuperior skill,

Thy pencil triumphs o'er the Poet's quill:
If yet my vanquish'd Muse exert her lays,
It is no more to rival thee, but praife.

Oft have I try'd, with unavailing care,
To trace some image of the much-lov'd fair;
But still my numbers ineffectual prov'd,
And rather shew'd how much, than whom, I lov'd:
But thy unerring hands, with matchlefs art,
Have shewn my eyes th' impreffion in my heart;
The bright idea both exists and lives,
Such vital heat thy genial pencil gives :
Whose daring point, not to the face confin'd,
Can penetrate the heart and paint the mind.
Others fome faint resemblance may express,
Which, as 'tis drawn by chance, we find by guess.
Thy pictures raise no doubts; when brought to view,
At once they 're known, and seem to know us too.
Transcendent artist! how compleat thy skill!
Thy power to act is equal to thy will.
Nature and art in thee alike contend,
Not to oppofe each other, but befrlend :

For

For

For what thy fancy has with fire design'd,

Is by thy skill both temper'd and refin'd.
As in thy pictures light consents with shade,

And each to other is subservient made ;

Judgement and genius so concur in thee,

And both unite in perfect harmony.

But after-days, my friend, must do thee right,

And set thy virtues in unenvy'd light.

Fame due to vast desert is kept in store,
Unpay'd, till the deserver is no more.
Yet thou, in present, the best part haft gain'd,
And from the chofen few applause obtain'd :
Ev'n he who best could judge, and best could praise
Has high extoll'd thee in his deathless lays;
Ev'n Dryden has immortaliz'd thy name;
Let that alone suffice thee, think that fame.
Unfit I follow where he led the way,

And court applause by what I seem to pay.
Myself I praise, while I thy praise intend,
For 'tis some virtue, virtue to commend;
And next to deeds which our own honour raise,
Is to diftinguith them who merit praise.

O learn with me, my hopeless love to moan;
Commiferate a life fo like thy own.

Like thine, my flames to my destruction turn,
Wafting that heart by which fupply'd they burn.
Like thine, my joy and fuffering they display;
At once are signs of life, and symptoms of decay.
And as thy fearful flames the day decline,
And only during night prefume to shine;
Their humble rays not daring to afpire
Before the fun, the fountain of their fire :
So mine, with confcious shame, and equal awe,
To fhades obfcure and folitude withdraw;
Nor dare their light before her eyes disclose,
From whose bright beams their being first arose.