And, in his abfence, all the penfive day
In some obfcure retreat I lonely stray;
All day to the repeating caves complain,
In mournful accents, and a dying strain;
Dear lovely youth, I cry to all around ;
Dear lovely youth, the flattering vales refound.
SYLVIA.
On flowery banks, by every murmuring stream,
Aminta is my Mufe's fofteft theme:
'Tis fhe that does my artful notes refine :
With fair Aminta's name my noblest verse shall fhine. AMARYLLIS.
I'll twine fresh garlands for Alexis' brows,
And confecrate to him eternal vows :
The charming youth fhall my Apollo prove ;
He fhall adorn my fongs, and tune my voice to love.
To the AUTHOR of the foregoing PASTORAL. BY Sylvia if thy charming self be meant ;
If Friendship be thy virgin vows extent;
Oh! let me in Aminta's praises join:
Her's my esteem shall be, my paffion thine.
When for thy head the garland I prepare,
A fecond wreath fhall bind Aminta's hair;
And, when my choiceft fongs thy worth proclaim,
Alternate verfe fhall blefs Aminta's name;
My heart fhall own the justice of her cause,
And Love himself fubmit to Friendship's laws.
But, if, beneath thy numbers' foft disguise,
Some favour'd swain, fome true Alexis lies;
If Amaryllis breathes thy fecret pains,
And thy fond heart beats measure to thy ftrains;
May'ft thou, howe'er I grieve, for ever find
The flame propitious, and the lover kind!
May Venus long exert her happy power,
And make thy beauty, like thy verfe, endure!
May every god his friendly aid afford,
Pan guard thy flock, and Ceres blefs thy board!
But, if by chance the feries of thy joys
Permit one thought lefs chearful to arise,
Piteous transfer it to the mournful swain,
Who, loving much, who, not belov'd again,
Feels an ill-fated paffion's laft excefs,
And dies in woe, that thou may'ft live in peace.
TO A LADY:
She refusing to continue a DISPUTE with me, and leaving me in the ARGUMENT.
PARE, generous victor, fpare the flave,
Who did unequal war purfue;
That more than triumph he might have,
In being overcome by you.
In the difpute whate'er I faid,
My heart was by my tongue
And in my looks you might have read
How much I argued on your fide.
III.
You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have sustain'd an open fight:
For feldom your opinions err;
Your eyes are always in the right.
IV.
Why, fair one, would you not rely
On Reason's force with Beauty's join'd?
Could I their prevalence deny,
I muft at once be deaf and blind.
Alas! not hoping to fubdue,
I only to the fight afpir'd:
To keep the beauteous foe in view
Was all the glory I defir'd.
But fhe, howe'er of victory fure,
Contemns the wreath too long delay'd:
And, arm'd with more immediate power,
Calls cruel filence to her aid.
Deeper to wound, fhe fhuns the fight;
She drops her arms, to gain the field;
Secures her conqueft by her flight;
And triumphs, when the feems to yield.
So, when the Parthian turn'd his steed,
And from the hoftile camp withdrew,
With cruel skill the backward reed
He sent; and, as he fled, he flew.
Seeing the Duke of ORMOND's Picture
at Sir GODFREY KNELLER's.
UT from the injur'd canvas, Kneller, ftrike
These lines too faint: the picture is not like.
Exalt thy thought, and try thy toil again :
Dreadful in arms, on Landen's glorious plain
Place Ormond's duke: impendent in the air
Let his keen sabre, comet-like, appear,
Where'er it points, denouncing death: below
Draw routed fquadrons, and the numerous foe,
Falling beneath, or flying from his blow:
Till, weak with wounds, and cover'd o'er with blood
Which from the Patriot's breaft in torrents flow'd,
He faints; his steed no longer feels the rein;
But stumbles o'er the heap, his hand had flain.
And now exhausted, bleeding, pale he lies;
Lovely, fad object! in his half-clos'd eyes
Stern vengeance yet, and hoftile terror stand:
His front yet threatens, and his frowns command.
The Gallic chiefs their troops around him call;
Fear to approach him, though they fee him fall.-
O Kneller,
O Kneller, could thy fhades and lights exprefs
The perfect hero in that glorious drefs;
Ages to come might Ormond's picture know,
And palms for thee beneath his laurels grow:
In fpite of time, thy work might ever shine;
Nor Homer's colours last so long as thine.
"Atque in amore mala hæc proprio, fumméque fecundo
HAT can I fay, what arguments can prove
My truth, what colours can defcribe my love,
If its excefs and fury be not known,
In what thy Celia has already done?
Thy infant flames, whilst yet they were conceal'd In timorous doubts, with pity I beheld; With eafy fmiles difpell'd the filent fear, That durft not tell me what I dy'd to hear. In vain I strove to check my growing flame, Or fhelter paffion under friendship's name: You faw my heart, how it my tongue bely'd; And when you prefs'd, how faintly I deny'd.Ere guardian thought could bring its fcatter'd aid, Ere reafon could fupport the doubting maid, My soul surpriz’d, and from herself disjoin'd, Left all referve, and all the fex, behind :
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