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But stumbles o'er the heap his hand had slain.
And now exhausted, bleeding, pale he lies;
Lovely, sad object in his half-clos'd eyes
Stern vengeance yet, and hostile terror stand:
His front yet threatens; and his frowns command:
The Gallic chiefs their troops around him call;
Fear to approach him, though they see him fall.
O Kneller, could thy shades and lights express
The perfect hero in that glorious dress;
Ages to come might Ormond's picture know ;
And palms for thee beneath his laurels grow :
In spite of Time thy work might ever shine;
Nor Homer's colours last so long as thine.

CELIA TO DAMON.

Atque in amore mala haec proprio, summeque secundo
Inveniuntur— LUCRET. lib. iv.

WHAT can I say, what arguments can prove
My truth, what colours can describe my love;
If its excess and fury be not known,
In what thy Celia has already done?
Thy infant flames, whilst yet they were conceal’d
In tim’rous doubts, with pity I beheld;
With easy smiles dispell'd the silent fear,
That durst not tell me what I died to hear:
In vain I strove to check my growing flame,

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Or shelter passion under friendship's name:
You saw my heart, how it my tongue belied;
And when you press'd, how faintly I denied—
Ere guardian thought could bring its scatter'd
aid ;
Ere reason could support the doubting maid;
My soul surpris'd, and from herself disjoin'd,
Ileft all reserve, and all the sex behind :
From your command her motions she receiv'd ;
And not for me, but you, she breath'd and liv'd.
But ever blest be Cytherea's shrine,
And fires eternal on her altars shine; -
Since thy dear breast has felt an equal wound;
Since in thy kindness my desires are crown'd,
By thy each look, and thought, and care, 'tis shown.
Thy joys are centred all in me alone;
And sure I am, thou wouldst not change this hou,
For all the white ones Fate has in its power.—
Yet thus belov'd, thus loving to excess,
Yet thus receiving and returning bliss,
In this great moment, in this golden now,
When every trace of what, or when, or how
Should from my soul by raging love be torn,
And far on swelling seas of rapture borne;
A melancholy tear aslicts my eye -
And my heart labours with a sudden sigh:
Invading fears repel my coward joy,
And ills foreseen the present bliss destroy.
Poor as it is, this Beauty was the cause,
That with first sighs your panting bosom rose:

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But with no owner Beauty long will stay,
Upon the wings of Time borne swift away :
Pass but some fleeting years, and these poor eyes
(Where now without a boast some lustre lies)
No longer shall their little honours keep ;
Shall only be of use to read, or weep:
And on this forehead, where your verse has said,
The Loves delighted, and the Graces play’d,
Insulting Age will trace his cruel way,
And leave sad marks of his destructive sway.
Mov’d by my charms, with them your love may
• cease,
And as the fuel sinks, the flame decrease :
Or angry Heav'n may quicker darts prepare,
And Sickness strike what Tim.awhile would spare.
Then will my swain his glowing vows renew ;
Then will his throbbing heart to mine beat true;
When my own face deters me from my glass;
And Kneller only shows what Celia was.
Fantastic fame may sound her wild alarms:
Your country, as you think, may want your arms.
You may neglect, or quench, or hate the flame,
Whose smoke too long obscur'd your rising name:
And quickly cold indiff'rence will ensue;
When you Love's joys through Honour's optic view.
Then Celia's loudest prayer will prove too weak,
To this abandon'd breast to bring you back;
When my lost lover the tall ship ascends,
With music gay, and wet with jovial friends:
The tender accents of a woman's cry

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Will pass unheard, will unregarded die;
When the rough seaman's louder shouts prevail;
When fair occasion shows the springing gale;
And Int’rest guides the helm ; and Honours swells
the sail.
Some wretched lines from this neglected hand
May find my hero on the foreign strand,
Warm with new fires, and pleas'd with new com-
mand :
While she who wrote 'em, of all joy bereft,
To the rude censure of the world is left;
Her mangled fame in barb’rous pastime lost,
The coxcomb's novel, and the drunkard's toast.
But nearer care (O pardon it !) supplies
Sighs to my breast, and sorrow to my eyes.
Love, Love himself (the only friend I have)
May scorn his triumph, having bound his slave.
That tyrant god, that restless conqueror
May quit his pleasure, to assert his pow'r;
Forsake the provinces that bless his sway,
To vanquish those which will not yet obey.
Another nymph with fatal power may rise,
To damp the sinking beams of Celia's eyes;
With haughty pride may hear her charms confest,
And scorn the ardent vows that I have blest:
You ev’ry night may sigh for her in vain,
And rise each morning to some fresh disdain;
While Celia's softest look may cease to charm,
And her embraces want the power to warm :
While these fond arms, thus circlingyou, may prove

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