You bid me try, by this deceit,
The notice of the world to cheat,
And hide, beneath another name,
The fecret of our mutual flame.
Damon, your prudence I confefs,
But let me wifh it had been lefs;
Too well the Lover's part you play'd,
With too much art your court you made;
Had it been only art, your eyes
Would not have join'd in the disguife.
Ah! ceafe thus idly to moleft
With groundless fears thy virgin breast.
While thus at fancied wrongs you grieve,
To me a real pain you give.
Though well I might your truth diftruft,
My foolish heart believes you just:"
Reason this faith may disapprove;
But I believe, becaufe I love.
IN IMITATION OF PASTOR FIDO.
(" O primavera gioventu del anno.")
Written Abroad in 1729.
ARENT of blooming flowers and gay defires, Youth of the tender year, delightful Spring, At whose approach, infpir'd with equal fires, The amorous Nightingale and Poet sing!
Again doft thou return, but not with thee
Return the fmiling hours I once poffeft;
Bleffings thou bring'ft to others, but to me
The fad remembrance that I once was bleft.
Thy faded charms, which Winter fnatch'd away,
Renew'd in all their former luftre fhine;
But, ah! no more shall hapless I be gay,
Or know the vernal joys that have been mine.
Though linnets fing, though flowers adorn the green, Though on their wings foft Zephyrs fragrance bear; Harth is the mufic, joylefs is the scene,
The odour faint: for Delia is not there.
Cheerlefs and cold I feel the genial fun,
From thee while abfent I in exile rove;
Thy lovely prefence, fairest light, alone
Can warm my heart to gladness and to love.
PARTS OF AN ELEGY OF TIBULLUS. Tranflated, 1729-30.
("Divitias alius fulvo fibi congerat auro.”)
ET others heap of wealth a fhining store,
And, much poffeffing, labour still for more;
Let them, difquieted with dire alarms,
Afpire to win a dangerous fame in arms:
Me tranquil poverty fhall lull to reft,
Humbly fecure, and indolently bleft;
Warm'd by the blaze of my own chearful hearth,
I'll waste the wintery hours in social mirth;
In Summer pleas'd attend to harvest toils,
In Autumn prefs the vineyard's purple fpoils,
And oft to Delia in my bofom bear
Some kid, or lamb, that wants its mother's care:
With her I'll celebrate each gladsome day,
When fwains their fportive rites to Bacchus pay.;
With her new milk on Pales' altar pour,
And deck with ripen'd fruits Pomona's bower.
At night, how foothing would it be to hear,
Safe in her arms, the tempeft howling near;
Or, while the wintery clouds their deluge pour,
Slumber affifted by the beating shower!
Ah! how much happier, than the fool who braves,
In fearch of wealth, the black tempeftuous waves !
While I, contented with my little store,
In tedious voyage feek no diftant fhore;
But, idly lolling on fome fhady feat,
Near cooling fountains fhun the dog-ftar's heat:
For what reward fo rich could Fortune give,
That I by abfence fhould my Delia grieve?
Let Great Meffalla fhine in martial toils,
And grace his palace with triumphal spoils;
Me Beauty holds, in ftrong though gentle chains,
Far from tumultuous war and dusty plains.
With thee, my love, to pafs my tranquil days,
How would I flight Ambition's painful praise !
How would I joy with thee, my love, to yoke
ox, and feed my folitary flock!
On thy foft breaft might I but lean my head,
How downy should I think the woodland bed!
The wretch, who fleeps not by his fair-one's fide, Detefts the gilded couch's useless pride,
Nor knows his weary, weeping eyes to close,
Though murmuring rills invite him to repose.
Hard were his heart, who thee, my fair, could leave
For all the honours profperous war can give ;
Though through the vanquish'd East he spread his fame,
And Parthian tyrants trembled at his name;
Though, bright in arms, while hofts around him bleed,
With martial pride he preft his foaming steed.
No pomps like thefe my humble vows require;
With thee I'll live, and in thy arms expire.
Thee may my closing eyes in death behold!
Thee may my faultering hand yet strive to hold!
Then, Delia, then, thy heart will melt in woe,
Then o'er my breathlefs clay thy tears will flow;
Thy tears will flow, for gentle is thy mind,
Nor dost thou think it weakness to be kind.
But, ah! fair mourner, I conjure thee, fpare
Thy heaving breasts and loose dishevel'd hair:
Wound not thy form; left on th' Elysian coaft
Thy anguifh fhould disturb my peaceful ghost.
But now nor death nor parting should employ
Our sprightly thoughts, or damp our bridal joy:
We'll live, my Delia; and from life remove
All care, all business, but delightful Love.
Old age in vain thofe pleasures would retrieve,
Which youth alone can taste, alone can give;
Then let us fnatch the moment to be bleft,
This hour is Love's-be Fortune's all the rest.
AY, Myra, why is gentle Love
A ftranger to that mind,
Which Pity and Esteem can move;
Which can be just and kind ?
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