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Sleep! thou flatterer of happy minds,

How foon a troubled breast thy falsehood finds!
Thou common friend, officious in thy aid,
Where no diftress is shown, nor want betray'd:
But oh, how fwift, how fure thou art to fhun
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 fhade around my restless bed?
Can no complainings thy compaffion move?
Is thy antipathy fo ftrong to love!

O no! thou art the prosperous lover's friend,
And doft uncall'd his pleafing toils attend.
With equal kindness, and with rival charms,
Thy flumbers lull him in his fair-one's arms;
Or from her bofom he to thine retires,

Where footh'd with ease the panting youth refpires,
Till soft repose restore 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 flumber freed,
But painful nights his joylefs days fucceed.


But why, dull god, do I of thee complain?

Thou didst not cause, nor canft thou cafe my pain.
Forgive what my distracting grief has faid;

Iown, unjustly I thy floth upbraid.


For oft I have thy proffer'd aid repell❜d,
And my reluctant from reft with-held;
Implor'd the Mufe to break thy gentle chains,
And fung with Philomel my nightly strains.
With her I fing, but ceafe not with her fong,
For more enduring woes my days prolong.
The morning lark to mine accords his note,
And tunes to my diftrefs his warbling throat :
Each fetting and each rifing fun I mourn,
Wailing alike his abfence 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' affociates of my melody and love,
In moving found alone relate their pain,
And not with voice articulate complain;*
So fhall my Mufe my tuneful forrows fing,
And lofe in air her name from whom they spring.
may no
wakeful thoughts her mind moleft,
Soft be her flumbers, and fincere her reft :

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For her, O Sleep, thy balmy fweets prepare;

The peace I lofe for her, to her transfer.

Hufh'd as the falling dews, whofe noifelefs fhowers
Imperle the folded leaves of evening flowers,
Steal on her brow: and as thofe dews attend,

Till warn'd by waking day to re-afcend,


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



Yield, O Kneller, to fuperior skill,

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

Oft have I try'd, with unavailing care,
To trace fome image of the much-lov'd fair;
But ftill my numbers ineffectual prov'd,

And rather fhew'd how much, than whom, I lov'd:

But thy unerring hands, with matchless art,

Have fhewn my eyes th' impreffion in my heart;

The bright idea both exifts and lives,
Such vital heat thy genial pencil gives :
Whofe daring point, not to the face confin'd,
Can penetrate the heart and paint the mind.
Others fome faint refemblance may express,

Which, as 'tis drawn by chance, we find by guefs.
Thy pictures raise no doubts; when brought to view,
At once they're known, and seem to know us too.
Transcendent artift! how compleat thy skill!
Thy power to act is equal to thy will.
Nature and art in thee alike contend,
Not to oppose each other, but befrlend :


For what thy fancy has with fire defign'd,
Is by thy skill both temper'd and refin'd.
As in thy pictures light confents with shade,
And each to other is fubfervient made;
Judgement and genius fo concur in thee,
And both unite in perfect harmony.

But after-days, my friend, muft do thee right,
And fet thy virtues in unenvy'd light.
Fame due to vaft defert is kept in store,
Unpay'd, till the deferver is no more.

Yet thou, in prefent, the best part haft gain'd,
And from the chofen few applause obtain❜d:
Ev'n he who beft 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 fuffice 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 fome virtue, virtue to commend ;
And next to deeds which our own honour raise,
Is to diftinguith them who merit praise.




G Y.

THOU watchful taper, by whose filent light
I lonely pass the melancholy night;
Thou faithful witness of my fecret pain,
To whom alone I venture to complain;

O learn

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 difplay;
At once are figns of life, and symptoms of decay.
And as thy fearful flames the day decline,
And only during night prefume to fhine;
Their humble rays not daring to aspire
Before the fun, the fountain of their fire:
So mine, with confcious fhame, and equal awe,
To fhades obfcure and folitude withdraw;
Nor dare their light before her eyes disclose,
From whofe bright beams their being first arose.


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