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Sleep! thou flatterer of happy minds,
How soon 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 swift, how sure thou art to fhun
The wretch, by fortune or by love undone !
Where are thy gentle dews, thy softer
Which us’d to wait upon my midnight hours ?
Why dost thou cease thy hovering wings to spread,
With friendly shade around my restless bed?
Can no complainings thy compassion move ?
Is thy antipathy so strong 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 slumbers lull him in his fair-one's arms;
Or from her bofom he to thine retires,
Where footh'd with ease the panting youth respires,
Till soft repofe 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 joyless days fucceed.
But why, dull god, do I of thee complain ?
Thou didst not cause, nor canst thou case my pain.
Forgive what my distracting grief has faid;
I own, unjustly I thy floth upbraid.
For oft I have thy proffer'd aid repellid,
from rest with-held; Implor'd the Mufe to break thy gentle chains, And fung with Philomel my nightly strains. With her I sing, but cease not with her song, For more enduring woes my days prolong. The morning lark to mine accords his note, And tunes to my diítress his warbling throat : Each setting and each rising sun I mourn, Wailing alike his absence and return. And all for thee---what had I well-nigh said? 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 fhall my Muse my tuneful forrows sing, And lose in air her name from whom they spring. O may no wakeful thoughts her mind molest, Soft be her flumbers, and sincere her rest: For her, O Sleep, thy balmy fweets prepare; peace
I lose 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,
So wait thou for her morn; then, gently rise,
And to the world restore the day-break of her eyes.
OCCASIONED BY L-Y-'S PICTURE.
Yield, O Kneller, to superior 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 praise.
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 matchless art,
Have shewn my eyes th' impression in my heart ;
The bright idea both exifts and lives,
Such vital heat they 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 oppose each other, but befrlend :
For what thy fancy has with fire design'd,
Is by thy skill both temper'd and refin’d.
As in thy pi&tures light confents 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 vaft defert 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 chosen 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 fome virtue, virtue to commend ;
And next to deeds which our own honour raise,
Is to distinguish them who merit praise.
E LE GY. THOU "HOU watchful taper, by whose filent light
I lonely pass the melancholy night; Thou faithful witness of my secret pain, To whom alone I venture to complain ;
O learn with me, my hopeless love to moan;
Commiserate a life so like thy own.
Like thine, my flames to my destruction turn,
Wasting that heart by which supply'd they burn.
Like thine, my joy and suffering they display;
At once are ligns of life, and symptoms of decay.
And as thy fearful flames the day decline,
And only during night prefume to thine ;
Their humble rays not daring to aspire
Before the sun, the fountain of their fire :
So mine, with conscious shame, and equal awe,
To shades obscure and solitude withdraw;
Nor dare their light before her eyes disclose,
From whose bright beams their being first arose.