00 much my heart of beauty's pow'r hath known,

To

'Too long to Love hath Reason left her throne;
Too long my genius mourn'd his myrtle chain,
And three rich years of youth confum'd in vain.
My wishes, lull'd with soft inglorious dreams,
Forgot the patriot's and the fage's themes:
Thro' each elyfian vale and fairy grove,
Thro' all th' enchanted paradife of love.
Mifled by fickly Hope's deceitful flame,
Averse to action, and renouncing fame.
At last the vifionary scenes decay;
My eyes, exulting, blefs the new-born day;
Whofe faithful beams detect the dangerous road
In which my heedlefs feet fecurely trod,

And ftrip the phantoms of their lying charms,
That lur'd my foul from Wifdom's peaceful arms.

For

For filver ftreams, and banks befpread with flow'rs,
For moffy couches, and harmonious bow'rs,

Lo! barren heaths appear, and pathless woods,
And rocks, hung dreadful o'er unfathom'd floods:
For openness of heart, for tender smiles,

Looks fraught with love, and wrath-disarming wiles,
Lo! fullen fpite, and perjur'd luft of gain,
And cruel pride, and crueller disdain;
Lo! cordial faith to idiot airs refin'd,
Now coolly civil, now transporting kind.
For graceful ease, lo! affectation walks,
And dull half-sense for wit and wisdom talks.
New to each hour, what low delight fucceeds,
What precious furniture of hearts and heads!
By nought their prudence, but by getting, known;
And all their courage in deceiving fhewn.

See next what plagues attend the lover's state,
What frightful forms of terror, scorn, and hate!
See burning Fury heav'n and earth defy!
See dumb Despair in icy fetters lie!
See black Sufpicion bend his gloomy brow,
The hideous image of himself to view!
And fond Belief, with all a lover's flame,
Sinks in those arms that point his head with fhame.
There wan Dejection, fault'ring as he goes,
In fhades and filence vainly feeks repofe;
Mufing thro' pathless wilds consumes the day,
Then loft in darkness, weeps the hours away.
Here the gay crowd of Luxury advance,
Some touch the lyre, and others urge the dance ;
On ev'ry head the rofy garland glows,

In ev'ry hand the golden goblet flows.

The Syren views them with exulting eyes,

And laughs at bashful Virtue as the flies.
But fee behind, where Scorn and Want appear,

The grave remonftrance, and the witty fneer!

See

See fell Remorfe, in action prompt to dart
Her fnaky poifon thro' the confcious heart!
And Sloth, to cancel, with oblivious shame,
The fair memorial of recording Fame!

Are thefe delights that one would wish to gain?
Is this th' elyfium of a fober brain?

To wait for happiness in female smiles,

Bear all her scorn, be caught with all her wiles;
With pray'rs, with bribes, with lyes, her pity crave,.
Bless her hard bonds, and boast to be her flave;
To feel, for trifles, a diftracting train

Of hopes and terrors, equally in vain ;

This hour to tremble, and the next to glow;
Can pride, can fenfe, can reafon ftoop fo low?
When Virtue, at an eafier price, difplays
The facred wreaths of honourable praise ;
When Wisdom utters her divine decree,
To laugh at pompous Folly, and be free.
I bid adieu, then, to thefe woeful fcenes;
I bid adieu to all the fex of queens;
Adieu to ev'ry fuff'ring, fimple foul,

That let's a woman's will his eafe controul.
There, laugh, ye witty; and rebuke, ye grave!
For me, I fcorn to boast that I'm a flave.
I bid the whining brotherhood be gone.
Joy to my heart! my wishes are my own!
Farewel the female heav'n, the female hell!
To the great god of love a glad farewel!
Is this the triumph of thy awful name?
Are these the fplendid hopes that urg'd thy aim,
When first my bofom own'd thy haughty fway?
When thus Minerva heard thee, boafting, fay-

Go, martial maid, elsewhere thy arts employ,
Nor hope to shelter that devoted boy :

Go, teach the folemn fons of care and age, • The penfive statesman, and the midnight fage;

The

The young with me muft other leffons prove;

< Youth calls for pleasure, pleafure calls for love. Behold his heart thy grave advice difdains, Behold I bind him in eternal chains.'

Alas! great Love, how idle was the boast!
Thy chains are broken, and thy leffons loft.
Thy wilful rage has tir'd my fuff'ring heart,
And paffion, reafon, forc'd thee to depart.

But wherefore doft thou linger on thy way?
Why vainly fearch for fome pretence to stay,
When crowds of vaffals court thy pleafing yoke,
And countless victims bow them to the stroke?
Lo! round thy fhrine a thousand youths advance,
Warm with the gentle ardours of romance;
Each longs t' affert thy cause with feats of arms,
And make the world confefs Dulcinea's charms.
Ten thousand girls, with flow'ry chaplets crown'd,
To groves and streams thy tender triumph found;
Each bids the ftream in murmurs fpeak her flame,
Each calls the grove to figh her fhepherd's name.
But if thy pride such easy honour scorn,
If nobler trophies muft thy toil adorn,
Behold yon flow'ry antiquated maid
Bright in the bloom of threescore years display'd;
Her shalt thou bind in thy delightful chains,
And thrill with gentle pangs her wither'd veins ;
Her frofty cheek with crimson blushes dye,
With dreams of rapture melt her maudlin eye.
Turn then thy labours to the fervile crowd,
Entice the wary, and controul the proud;
Make the fad mife his best gains forego,
The folemn ftatefman figh to be a beau ;
The bold coquette with fondeft paffion burn,
The Bacchanalian o'er his bottle mourn;
And that chief glory of thy pow'r maintain,

To poife ambition in a female brain.’

t

Be these thy triumphs, but no more prefume
That my rebellious heart will yield thee room.
I know thy puny force, thy fimple wiles;
I break triumphant thro' thy flimfy toils;
I fee thy dying lamp's laft languid glow,
Thy arrows blunted, and unbrac'd thy bow;
I feel diviner fires my breaft inflame,
To active science, and ingenuous fame:
Refume the paths my earliest choice began,
And lofe, with pride, the lover in the man.

LYCIDAS*.

A MONODY.

BY MR. JOHN MILTON.

ET once more, O ye laurels, and once more

and

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never fere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and fad occafion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime;
Young Lycidas! and hath not left his peer.
Who would not fing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to fing, and build the lofty rhime.
He must not float upon his wat'ry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of fome melodious tear.

* This poem was made upon the unfortunate and untimely death of Mr. Edward King, fon of Sir John King secretary for Ireland, (a fellow-collegian and intimate friend of our author) who, as he was going to visit his relations in Ireland, was drowned on the 10th of August 1637, and in the 25th year of his age.

Dr. NEWTON.