Scarce had he spoke, when through the lawn below On all her days let health and peace attend; Alone he saw the beauteous Delia go;

May she ne'er want, nor ever lose, a friend ! At once transported, he forgot his vow,

May some new pleasure every hour employ: (Such perjuries the laughing gods allow!)

But let her Damon be her highest joy! Down the steep hills with ardent haste he flew; “ With thee, my love, for ever will I stay, He found her kind, and soon believ'd her true. All night caress thee, and admire all day ;

In the same field our mingled flocks we'll feed,

To the same spring our thirsty heisers lead,
POSSESSION.

Together will we share the harvest toils,
ECLOGUE IV.

Together press the vine's autumnal spoils.
TO LORD COBHAM.

Delightful state, where Peace and Love combine,

To bid our tranquil days unclouded shine! COBHAM, 19 thee this rural lay I bring,

Here limpid fountains roll through flowery meads; Whose guiding judgment gives me skill to sing :

Here rising forests lift their verdant heads; Though far unequal to those polish'd strains, Here let me wear my careless life away, With which thy Congreve charm’d the listening And in thy arms insensibly decay. plains :

When late old age our heads shall silver o'er Yet shall its music please thy partial ear,

And our slow pulses dance with joy no more; And soothe thy breast with thoughts that once were When Time no longer will thy beauties spare, dear;

And only Damon's eye shall think thee fair; Recall those years which Time has thrown behind, Then may the gentle hand of welcome Death, When smiling Love with Honor shar'd thy mind :

At one soft stroke, deprive us both of breath! When all thy glorious days of prosperous fight May we beneath one common stone be laid, Delighted less than one successful night.

And the same cypress both our ashes shade!
The sweet remembrance shall thy youth restore, Perhaps some friendly Muse, in tender verse
Fancy again shall run past pleasures o'er; Shall deign our faithful passion to rehearse
And, while in Stowe's enchanting walks you stray, And future ages, with just envy mov'd,
This theme may help to cheat the summer's day. Be told how Damon and his Delia lov'd."

Beneath the covert of a myrtle wood,
To Venus rais'd, a rustic altar stood.
To Venus and to Hymen, there combin'd,
In friendly league to favor human-kind.
With wanton Cupids, in that happy shade,
The gentle Virtues and mild Wisdom play'd.

TO THE REVEREND DR. AYSCOUGH, Nor there in sprightly Pleasure's genial train,

AT OXFORD. Lurk'd sick Disgust, or late-repenting Pain, Nor Force, nor Interest, join'd unwilling hands, Say, dearest friend, how roll thy hours away ? But Love consenting tied the blissful bands. What pleasing study cheats the tedious day? Thither, with glad devotion, Damon came,

Dost thou the sacred volumes oft explore To thank the powers who bless'd his faithful flame: Of wise Antiquity's immortal lore, Two milk-white doves he on their altar laid, Where virtue, by the charms of wit refin'd, And thus to both his grateful homage paid : At once exalts and polishes the mind ? “Hail, bounteous god! before whose hallow'd shrine How different from our modern guilty art, My Delia vow'd to be for ever mine,

Which pleases only to corrupt the heart; While, glowing in her cheeks, with tender love, Whose curst refinements odious vice adorn, Sweet virgin-modesty reluctant strove!

And teach to honor what we ought to scorn! And bail to thee, fair queen of young desires! Dost thou in sage historians joy to see Long shall my heart preserve thy pleasing fires, How Roman greatness rose with liberty : Since Delia now can all its warmth return, How the same hands that tyrants durst control As fondly languish, and as fiercely bum.

Their empire stretch'd from Atlas to the Pole; “O) the dear bloom of last propitious night! Till wealth and conquest into slaves refin'd O shade more charming than the fairest light! The proud luxurious masters of mankind ? Then in my arms I clasp'd the melting maid, Dost thou in letter'd Greece each charm admire, Then all my pains one moment overpaid;

Each grace, each virtue, Freedom could inspire; Then first the sweet excess of bliss I provid,

Yet in her troubled state see all the woes, Which none can taste but who like me have lov'd. And all the crimes, that giddy faction knows; Thou too, bright goddess, once, in Ida's grove, Till, rent by parties, by corruption sold, Didst not disdain to meet a shepherd's love; Or weakly careless, or too rashly bold, With him, while frisking lambs around you play'd, She sunk beneath a mitigated doom, Conceald you sported in the secret shade: The slave and tutoress of protecting Rome? Scarce could Anchises' raptures equal mine, Does calm Philosophy her aid impart, And Delia's beauties only yield to thine,

To guide the passions, and to mend the heart? “What are ye now, my once most valued joys ? Taught by her precepts, hast thou learnt the end Insipid trifes all, and childish toys

To which alone the wise their studies bend; Friendship itself ne'er knew a charm like this, For which alone by Nature were design'd Nor Colin's talk could please like Delia's kiss. The powers of thought—-10 benefit mankind ?

“ Ye Muses, skill'd in every winning art, Not, like a cloister'd drone, to read and doze, Teach me more deeply to engage her heart;

In undeserving, undeserv'd, repose; Ye nymphs, to her your freshest roses bring. But reason's influence to diffuse ; to clear And crown her with the pride of all the Spring : Thienlighten'd world of every gloomy fear;

Dispel the mists of error, and unbind

Where ev'n mute walls are taught to flatter state, Those pedant chains that clog the free-born mind. And painted triumphs style Ambition GREAT.* Happy who thus his leisure can employ!

With more delight those pleasing shades I view He knows the purest hours of tranquil joy ; Where Condé from an envious court withdrew; Nor vext with pangs that busier bosoms tear, Where, sick of glory, faction, power, and pride, Nor lost to social virtue's pleasing care ;

(Sure judge how empty all, who all had tried !) Safe in the port, yet laboring to sustain

Beneath his palms the weary chief reposd,
Those who still float on the tempestuous main. And life's great scene in quiet virtue clos'd.

So Locke the days of studious quiet spent; With shame that other fam'd retreat I see,
So Boyle in wisdom found divine content; Adorn'd by art, disgrac'd by luxury: I
So Cambray, worthy of a happier doom,

Where Orleans wasted every vacant hour,
The virtuous slave of Louis and of Rome. In the wild riot of unbounded power;

Good Wor'ster* thus supports his drooping age, Where feverish debauch and impious love Far from court-fattery, far from party-rage; Stain'd the mad table and the guilty grove. He, who in youth a tyrant's frown defied,

With these amusements is thy friend detain'd, Firm and intrepid on his country's side,

Pleas'd and instructed in a foreign land; Her boldest champion then, and now her mildest Yet oft a tender wish recalls my mind guide!

From present joys to dearer left behind. O generous warmıh! O sanctity divine !

O native isle, fair Freedom's happiest seat! To emulate his worth, my friend, be thine : At thought of thee, my bounding pulses beat; Learn from his life the duties of the gown; At thought of thee, my heart impatient bums, Learn, not to flatter, nor insult the crown;

And all my country on my soul returns. Nor, basely servile, court the guilty great, When shall I see thy fields, whose plenteous grain Nor raise the church a rival to the state :

No power can ravish from th' industrious swain! To error mild, to vice alone severe,

When kiss, with pious love, the sacred earth Seek not to spread the law of love by fear. That gave a Burleigh or a Russell birth? The priest who plagues the world can never mend: When, in the shade of laws, that long have stood, No soe to man was e'er to God a friend.

Propt by their care, or strengthen'd by their blood Let reason and let virtue faith maintain ;

of fearless independence wisely vain, All force but theirs is impious, weak, and vain. The proudest slave of Bourbon's race disdain? Me other cares in other climes engage,

Yet, oh! what doubt, what sad presaging voice, Cares that become my birth, and suit my age; Whispers within, and bids me not rejoice; In various knowledge to improve my youth, Bids me contemplate every state around, And conquer prejudice, worst foe to truth; From sultry Spain to Norway's icy bound; By foreign arts domestic faults to mend,

Bids their lost rights, their ruin'd glory see: Enlarge my notions, and my views extend; And tells me, “These, like England, once were free! The useful science of the world to know, Which books can never teach, or pedants show.

A nation here I pity and admire,
Whom noblest sentiments of glory fire,

SONG.
Yet taught, by custom's force and bigot fear,
To serve with pride, and boast the yoke they bear:

When Delia on the plain appears,
Whose nobles, born to cringe and to command,

Aw'd by a thousand tender sears, (In courts a mean, in camps a generous band,)

I would approach, but dare not move :
From each low tool of power, content receive

Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Those laws, their dreaded arms to Europe give.
Whose people (vain in want, in bondage blest;

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
Though plunderd, gay; industrious, though opprest)

No other voice but hers can hear, With happy follies rise above their fate,

No other wit but hers approve :
The jest and envy of each wiser state.

Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Yet here the Muses deign'd awhile to sport
In the short sun-shine of a favoring court;

If she some other youth commend,
Here Boileau, strong in sense and sharp in wit,

Though I was once his fondest friend, Who, from the ancients, like the ancients writ,

His instant enemy I prove :
Permission gain'd inferior vice to blame,

Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
By flattering incense to his master's fame.
Here Moliere, first of comic wits, excell'd

When she is absent, I do more
Whate'er Athenian theatres beheld;

Delight in all that pleas'd before, By keen, yet decent, satire skill'd to please,

The clearest spring, or shadiest grove :
With morals mirth uniting, strength with ease.

Tell me, my heart, if this be lore?
Now, charm'd, I hear the bold Corneille inspire
Heroic thoughts, with Shakspeare's force and fire!

When, fond of power, of beauty vain,
Now sweet Racine, with milder influence, move

Her nets she spread for every swain, The soften'd heart to pity and to love.

I strove to hate, but vainly strove :
With mingled pain and pleasure, I survey

Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
The pompous works of arbitrary sway ;
Proud palaces, that drain'd the subjects' store,
Rais'd on the ruins of th' opprest and poor ;

* The victories of Louis the Fourteenth, painted in the

galleries of Versailles. • Rishop Hough.

| Chantilly

1 St. Cloud.

Thus, Delia, thus I paint the scene,

When shortly we shall meet;
And try what yet remains between

Of loitering time to cheat.

But, if the dream that soothes my mind

Shall false and groundless prove; If I am doom'd at length to find

You have forgot to love:

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice

To hear her heavenly voice;
For her despising, when she deign'd to sing,

The sweetest songsters of the spring :
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more ;

The nightingale was mute,

And every shepherd's Nute
Was cast in silent scorn away,
While all attended to her sweeter lay.
Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song,

And thou, melodious Philomel,

Again thy plaintive story tell ;
For Death has stopt that tuneful tongue,
Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel

All I of Venus ask, is this;

No more to let us join:
But grant me here the flattering bliss,

To die, and think you mine.

In vain I look around
SONG.

O'er all the well-known ground,

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry;
SAY, Myra, why is gentle love

Where oft we us’d to walk,
A stranger to that mind,

Where oft in tender talk
Which pity and esteem can move,

We saw the summer Sun go down the sky;
Which can be just and kind ?

Nor by yon fountain's side,

Nor where its waters glide
Is it, because you fear to share

Along the valley, can she now be found :
The ills that love molest;

In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound
The jealous doubt, the tender care,

No more my mournful eye
That rack the amorous breast ?

Can aught of her espy,

But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.
Alas! by some degree of woe
We every bliss must gain :

O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast?
The heart can ne'er a transport know, Your bright inhabitant is lost.
That never feels a pain.

You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts
Where female vanity might wish to shine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.
Her modest beauties shunnid the public eye:

To your sequester'd dales
TO TIIE MEMORY OF

And Power-embroider'd vales

From an admiring world she chose to fly:
THE FIRST LADY LYTTELTON.

With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,
A MONODY.

The silent paths of wisdom trod,

And banish'd every passion from her breast, Ipse cavà solans ægrum testudine amorem,

But those, the gentlest and the best, Te dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum,

Whose holy flames with energy divine Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.

The virtuous heart enliven and improve, At length escap'd from every human eye, The conjugal and the maternal love.

From every duty, every care, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; Were wont 10 trip along these verdant lawns Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,

By your delighted mother's side, This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,

Who now your infant steps shall guide ?

Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care At least, ye Nine, her spotless name
To every virtue would have form'd your youth, "Tis yours from Death to save,
And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of And in the temple of immortal Fame
truth?

With golden characters her worth engrave.
O loss beyond repair!

Come then, ye virgin-sisters, come, O wretched father! left alone,

And strew with choicest flowers her hallow'd tomb To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own! But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad, How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress’d with woe, With accents sweet and sad, And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,

Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's urn Perform the duties that you doubly owe!

Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn;
Now she, alas! is gone,

O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
From folly and from vice their helpless age to save ? A more impassion'd tear, a more pathetic lay.

Where were ye, Muses, when relentless Fate Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
From these fond arms your fair disciple tore; Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar grace!

From these fond arms, that vainly strove How eloquent in every look
With hapless ineffectual love

Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly spoke!
To guard her bosom from the mortal blow? Tell how her manners, by the world refin'd,
Could not your favoring power, Aonian Left all the taint of modish vice behind,
maids,

And made each charm of polish'd courts agree Could not, alas! your power prolong her date, With candid Truth's simplicity,

For whom so oft in these inspiring shades, And uncorrupted Innocence!
Or under Camden's moss-clad mountains hoar, Tell how to more than manly sense
You open'd all your sacred store,

She join'd the softening influence
Whate'er your ancient sages taught,

of more than female tenderness : * Your ancient bards sublimely thought,

How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and joy, And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit Which oft the care of others' good destroy, glow?

Her kindly-melting heart,

To every want and every woe, Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,

To guilt itself when in distress,
Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain,

The balm of pity would impart,
Nor in the Thespian valleys did you play ; And all relief that bounty could bestow!
Nor then on Mincio's bank*

Ev'n for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life
Beset with osiers dank,

Beneath the bloody knife, Nor where Clitumnust rolls his gentle stream, Her gentle tears would fall, Nor where through hanging woods,

Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to all.
Steep Aniot pours his floods,
Nor yet where Meles v or Ilissus || stray.

Not only good and kind,
Ill does it now beseem,

But strong and elevated was her mind :
That, of your guardian care bereft,

A spirit that with noble pride
To dire disease and death your darling should be left. Could look superior down

On Fortune's smile or frown;
Now what avails it that in early bloom,

That could without regret or pain
When light fantastic toys

To Virtue's lowest duty sacrifice
Are all her sex's joys,

Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize;
With you she search'd the wit of Greece and That, injur’d or offended, never tried
Rome;

Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,
And all that in her latter days

But by magnanimous disdain.
To emulate her ancient praise

A wit that, temperately bright,
Italia's happy genius could produce ;

With inoffensive light
Or what the Gallic fire

All pleasing shone ; nor ever past
Bright sparkling could inspire,

The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober hand, By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd;

And sweet Benevolence's mild command, Or what in Britain's isle,

And bashful Modesty, before it cast. Most favord with your smile,

A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd, The powers of Reason and of Fancy join'd

That nor too little nor too much believ'd, To full perfection have conspir'd to raise ?

That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear, Ah! what is now the use

And without weakness knew to be sincere. Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind, Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest days, To black Oblivion's gloom for ever now consign'd. Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise,

In life's and glory's freshest bloom,

Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the tomb * The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth place of Virgil.

† The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of So, where the silent streams of Liris glide, Propertius.

In the soft bosom of Campania's vale, | The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where Hor. When now the wintry tempests all are fled, ace had a villa.

And genial Summer breathes her genule gale, $ The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head : supposed to be born on its banks, is called Melisigenes. From every branch the balmy flowerets rise | The Ilissus is a river at Athens.

On every bough the golden fruits are seen:

With odors sweet it fills the smiling skies,

Support me, every friend ;
The wood-nymphs tend, and th’ Idalian queen. Your kind assistance lend,
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride, To bear the weighi of this oppressive woe.
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows,

Alas! each friend of mine,
Cold with perpetual snows:

My dear departed love, so much was thine, The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and That none has any comfort to bestow. dies.

My books, the best relief

In every other grief, Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bowers,

Are now with your idea sadden'd all : With never-fading myrtles twin'd,

Each favorite author we together read And fragrant with ambrosial flowers,

My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;

dead. Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre, Tun'd by thy skilful hand,

We were the happiest pair of human-kind : To the soft notes of elegant desire,

The rolling year its varying course perform'd
With which o'er many a land

And back return'd again;
Was spread the fame of thy disastrous love; Another and another smiling came,
To me resign the vocal shell,

And saw onr happiness unchang'd remain :
And teach my sorrows to relate

Still in her golden chain
Their melancholy tale so well,

Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind :
As may ev'n things inanimate,

Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. Rough mountain oaks, and desert rocks, to pity move.

O fatal, fatal stroke,

That all this pleasing fabric Love had rais'd What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine?

of rare felicity, To thee thy mistress in the blissful band

On which ev'n wanton Vice with envy gaz'd, of Hymen never gave her hand;

And every scheme of bliss our hearts had form’d,
The joys of wedded love were never thine : With soothing hope, for many a future day,
In thy domestic care

In one sad moment broke -
She never bore a share,

Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay ;
Nor with endearing art

Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign, Would heal thy wounded heart

Or against his supreme decree Of every secret grief that fester'd there :

With impious grief complain. Nor did her fond affection on the bed

That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head Was his most righteous will — and be that will Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain,

obey'd.
And charm away the sense of pain:
Nor did she crown your mutual flame

Would thy fond love his grace to her control, With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name. And in these low abodes of sin and pain

Her pure exalted soul
O best of wives! O dearer far to me

Unjustly for thy partial good detain ?
Than when thy virgin charms

No-rather strive thy grovelling mind to raiso
Were yielded to my arms,

Up to that unclouded blaze, How can my soul endure the loss of thee? That heavenly radiance of eternal light, How in the world, to me a desert grown,

In which enthron'd she now with pity sees Abandon'd and alone,

How frail, how insecure, how slight,
Without my sweet companion can I live?

Is every mortal bliss ;
Without thy lovely smile,

Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees
The dear reward of every virtuous toil,

Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state, What pleasures now can pall’d Ambition give? Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,

Ev'n the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise, It does not to its sovereign good ascend. Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts Rise then, my soul, with hope elate, could raise.

And seek those regions of serene delight,

Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate For my distracted mind

No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss What succor can I find ?

There Death himself thy Lucy shall restoro, On whom for consolation shall I call ? There yield up all his power, ne'er to divide you more.

86