Yet, if I could humbly show her,
Ah how wretched I remain;
'Tis not, sure a thing below her,

Still to pity so much pair.

The gods some pleasure, pleasure take,.
Happy as themselves to make
Those who suffer for their sake.

Since your hand alone was given

To a wretch not worth your care; Like some angel sent from Heaven,

Come, and raise me from despair. Your heart I cannot, cannot miss, And I desire no other bliss;

Let all the world besides be his.

DESPAIR.

ALL hopeless of relief,

Incapable of rest,

In vain I strive to vent a grief
That's not to be exprest.

This rage within my veins

No reason can remove;

Of all the mind's most cruel pains, The sharpest, sure, is love.

Yet while I languish so,

And on thee vainly call;

Take heed, fair cause of all my woe, What fate may thee befall. Ungrateful, cruel faults

Suit not thy gentle sex; Hereafter, how will guilty thoughts Thy tender conscience vex!

When welcome Death shall bring
Relief to wretched me,

My soul enlarg'd, and once on wing,
In haste will fly to thee.
When in thy lonely bed

My ghost its moan shall make, With saddest signs that I am dead, And dead for thy dear sake; Struck with that conscious blow, Thy very soul will start:

Pale as my shadow thou wilt grow,
And cold as is thy heart.
Too late remorse will then
Untimely pity show

To him, who, of all mortal men,
Did most thy value know.
Yet, with this broken heart,
I wish thou never be

Tormented with the thousandth part
Of what I feel for thee.

ON APPREHENSION OF LOSING

WHAT HE HAD NEWLY GAINED.

IN IMITATION OF OVID.

SURE I of all men am the first
That ever was by kindness curst,
Who must my only bliss bemoan,
And am by happiness undone.

Had I at distance only seen
That lovely face, I might have been
With the delightful object pleas'd,
But not with all this passion seiz'd.

When afterwards so near I came
As to be scorch'd in Beauty's flame;
To so much softness, so much sense,
Reason itself made no defence.

What pleasing thoughts possess'd my mind,
When little favours show'd you kind!
And though, when coldness oft prevail'd,
My heart would sink, and spirits fail'd,
Yet willingly the yoke I bore,
And all your chains as bracelets wore:
At your lov'd feet all day would lie,
Desiring, without knowing why;
For, not yet blest within your arms,
Who could have thought of half your charms?
Charms of such a wondrous kind,
Words we cannot, must not find,
A body worthy of your mind.
Fancy could ne'er so high reflect,
Nor love itself such joys expect.
After such embraces past,
Whose memory will ever last,
Love is still reflecting back;
All my soul is on a rack:
To be in Hell 's sufficient curse,
But to fall from Heaven is worse.
I liv'd in grief ere this I knew,
But then I dwelt in darkness too.
Of gains alas! I could not boast;
But little thought how much I lost.

Now heart-devouring eagerness,
And sharp impatience to possess;
Now restless cares, consuming fires,
Anxious thoughts, and fierce desires,
Tear my heart to that degree,
For ever fix'd on only thee:
Then all my comfort is, I shall
Live in thy arms, or not at all.

THE RECONCILEMENT.

SONG.

COME, let us now resolve at last

To live and love in quiet;
We'll tie the knot so very fast,

That Time shall ne'er untie it.
The truest joys they seldom prove,
Who free from quarrels live;
'Tis the most tender part of love,
Each other to forgive.

When least I seem'd concern'd, I took
No pleasure, nor no rest;
And when I feign'd an angry look,
Alas! I lov'd you best.

Own but the same to me, you'll find

How blest will be our fate; Oh, to be happy, to be kind, Sure never is too late.

TO A COQUET BEAUTY.

FROM wars and plagues come no such harms,
As from a nymph so full of charms,

So much sweetness in her face,
In her motions such a grace,
In her kind inviting eyes
Such a soft enchantment lies,
That we please ourselves too soon,
And are with empty hopes undone.
After all her softness, we
Are but slaves, while she is free;
Free, alas! from all desire,
Except to set the world on fire.

Thou, fair dissembler, dost but thus
Deceive thyself, as well as us.
Like a restless monarch, thou
Wouldst rather force mankind to bow,
And venture round the world to roam,
Then govern peaceably at home.
But trust me, Celia, trust me, when
Apollo's self inspires my pen,

One hour of love's delight outweighs
Whole years of universal praise;
And one adorer, kindly us'd,
Gives truer joys than crowds refus’d.
For what does youth and beauty serve?
Why more than all your sex deserve?
Why such soft alluring arts

To charm our eyes, and melt our hearts?
By our loss you nothing gain:
Unless you love, you please in vain.

THE RELAPSE.

LIKE children in a starry night,
When I beheld those eyes before,
I gaz'd with wonder and delight,
Insensible of all their power.

I play'd about the flame so long,

At last I felt the scorching fire;

My hopes were weak, my passion strong,
And I lay dying with desire.
By all the helps of human art,

I just recover'd so much sense,
As to avoid, with heavy heart,
The fair, but fatal, influence.
But, since you shine away despair,
And now my sighs no longer shun,
No Persian in his zealous prayer
So much adores the rising Sun.

If once again my vows displease, There never was so lost a lover; In love, that languishing disease, A sad relapse we ne'er recover.

THE RECOVERY.

SIGHING and languishing I lay,

A stranger grown to all delight, Passing with tedious thoughts the day, And with unquiet dreams the night. For your dear sake, my only care

Was how my fatal love to hide;
For ever drooping with despair,

Neglecting all the world beside:
Till, like some angel from above,
Cornelia came to my relief;
And then I found the joys of love
Can make amends for all the grief.
Those pleasing hopes I now pursue

Might fail if you could prove unjust; But promises from Heaven and you, Who is so impious to mistrust?

Here all my doubts and troubles end,
One tender word my soul assures ;

Nor am I vain, since I depend
Not on my own desert, but yours.

THE CONVERT. DEJECTED, as true converts die,

But yet with fervent thoughts inflam'd,

So, fairest at your feet I lie,

Of all my sex's faults asham'd.

Too long, alas! have I abus'd

Love's innocent and sacred flame, And that divinest power have us'd To laugh at, as an idle name.

But since so freely I confess

A crime which may your scorn produce, Allow me now to make it less

By any just and fair excuse.

I then did vulgar joys pursue,
Variety was all my bliss;
But ignorant of love and you,

How could I choose but do amiss?

If ever now my wandering eyes
Seek out amusements as before;
If e'er I look, but to despise

Such charms, and value yours the more;

May sad remorse, and guilty shame,
Revenge your wrongs on faithless me;
And, what I tremble even to name,
May I lose all in losing thee!

THE PICTURE.

IN IMITATION OF ANACREON.

Thou flatterer of all the fair,
Come with all your skill and care;

Draw me such a shape and face,
As your flattery would disgrace.
Wish not that she would appear,
'Tis well for you she is not here:
Scarce can you with safety see
All her charms describ'd by me:
I, alas' the danger know,
I, alas! have felt the blow;
Mourn, as lost, my former days,
That never sung of Celia's praise;
And those few that are behind
I shall blest or wretched find,
Only just as she is kind.

With her tempting eyes begin,
Eyes that would draw angels in
To a second sweeter sin.

Oh, those wanton rolling eyes!
At each glance a lover dies:
Make them bright, yet make them willing,
Let them look both kind and killing.

Next, draw her forehead; then her nose,
And lips just opening, that disclose
Teeth so bright, and breath so sweet,
So much beauty, so much wit,
To our very soul they strike,
All our senses pleas'd alike.

But so pure a white and red,
Never, never, can be said:
What are words in such a case?
What is paint to such a face?
How should either art avail us?
Fancy here itself must fail us.

In her looks, and in her mien,
Such a graceful air is seen,
That if you, with all your art,
Can but reach the smallest part;
Next to her, the matchless she,
We shall wonder most at thee.

Then he neck, and breasts, and hair,
And her but my charming fair
Does in a thousand things excel,
Which I must not, dare not tell.
How go on then? Oh' I see
A lovely Venus drawn by thee;
Oh how fair she does appear!
Touch it only here and there.
Make her yet seem more divine,

Your Venus then may look like mine,
Whose bright form if once you saw,
You by her would Venus draw.

ON

DON ALONZO'S BEING KILLED IN

PORTUGAL,

If from the glorious height he falls,
He greatly daring dies;

Or mounting where bright beauty calls,
An empire is the prize.

THE SURPRISE.

SAFELY perhaps dull crowds admire;
But I, alas! am all on fire.
Like him who thought in childhood past
That dire disease which kill'd at last,

I durst have sworn I lov'd before,
And fancy'd all the danger o'er;
Had felt the pangs of jealous pain,
And borne the blasts of cold disdain;
Then reap'd at length the mighty gains,
That full reward of all our pains!

But what was all such grief or joy, That did my heedless ears employ? Mere dreams of feign'd fantastic powers, But the disease of idle hours; Amusement, humour, affectation, Compar'd with this sublimer passion, Whose raptures, bright as those above, Outshine the flames of zeal or love.

Yet think not, fairest, what I sing
Can from a love platonic spring,
That formal softness (false and vain)
Not of the heart, but of the brain.
Thou art indeed above all nature;
But I, a wretched human creature,
Wanting thy gentle generous aid,
Of husband, rivals, friends, afraid!
Amidst all this seraphic fire,
Am almost dying with desire,
With eager wishes, ardent thoughts,
Prone to commit Love's wildest faults!

And (as we are on Sundays told

The lusty patriarch did of old)

Would force a blessing from those charms, And grasp an angel in my arms.

A DIALOGUE,

SUNG ON THE STAGE, BETWEEN AN ELDERLY SHEPHERD AND A VERY YOUNG NYMPH.

SHEPHERD.

BRIGHT and blooming as the Spring,

Universal love inspiring;

All our swains thy praises sing,
Ever gazing and admiring.

NYMPH.

In such a cause no Muse should fail

To bear a mournful part;

'Tis just and noble to bewail

The fate of fall'n desert.

In vain ambitious hopes design'd
To make his soul aspire,
If love and beauty had not join'd,
To raise a brighter fire.
Amidst so many dangerous foes
How weak the wisest prove!
Reason itself would scarce oppose,
And seems agreed with love.

And by such a shepherd sung,
Are enough to make me vain,

Yet so harmless and so young.
SHEPHERD.

I should have despair'd among
Rivals that appear so gaily:
But your eyes have made me young,
By their smiling on me daily.

NYMPH.

Idle boys admire us blindly,
Are inconstant, wild, and bold;
And your using me so kindly
Is a proof you are not old.

DIED DISCOVERING HER KINDNESS.
SOME vex their souls with jealous pain,
While others sigh for cold disdain:
Love's various slaves we daily see!
Yet happy all, compar'd with me.

Of all mankind, I lov'd the best
A nymph so far above the rest,
That we outshin'd the Elest above,
In beauty she, and I in love.

And therefore they who could not bear
To be outdone by mortals here,
Among themselves have plac'd her now,
And left me wretched here below.

All other fate I could have borne,
And ev'n endur'd her very scorn;
But, oh! thus all at once to find

That dread account! both dead and kind!
What heart can hold! if yet I live,
'Tis but to show how much I grieve.

ON LUCINDA'S DEATH.
COME, all ye doleful, dismal cares,
That ever haunted guilty mind!
The pangs of love when it despairs,

And all those stings the jealous find:
Alas! heart-breaking though ye be,
Yet welcome, welcome all to me!
Who now have lost-but, oh! how much?
No language, nothing can express,
Except my grief! for she was such,

That praises would but make her less.
Yet who can ever dare to raise
His voice on her, unless to praise?
Free from her sex's smallest faults,
And fair as womankind can be:
Tender and warm as lover's thoughts,
Yet cold to all the world but me.

Of all this nothing now remains, But only sighs and endless pains!

TO A LADY

RETIRING INTO A MONASTERY.

WHAT breast but yours can hold the double fire

Of fierce devotion, and of fond desire?
Love would shine forth, were not your zeal so bright,
Whose glaring flames eclipse his gentler light:
Less seems the faith that mountains can remove,
Than this which triumphs over youth and love.

But shall some threatening priest divide us two? What worse than that could all his curses do? Thus, with a fright, some have resign'd their breath, And poorly dy'd, only for fear of death.

Heaven sees our passions with indulgence still, And they who lov'd well, can do nothing ill. While to us nothing but ourselves is dear, Should the world frown, yet what have we to fear? Fame, wealth, and power, those high-priz'd gifts The low concerns of a less happy state, [of Fate, Are far beneath us: Fortune's self may take Her aim at us, yet no impression make; Let worldlings ask her help, or fear her harms; We can lie safe, lock'd in each other's arms, Like the blest saints, eternal raptures know, And slight those storms that vainly rest below. Yet this, all this, you are resolv'd to quit; I see my ruin, and I must submit ; But think, O think, before you prove unkind, How lost a wretch you leave forlorn behind!

Malignant envy, mix'd with hate and fear, Revenge for wrongs too burthensome to bear, Ev'n zeal itself, from whence all mischiefs spring, Have never done so barbarous a thing.

With such a fate the Heavens decreed to vex Armida once, though of the fairest sex; Rinaldo she had charm'd with so much art, Hers was his power, his person, and his heart: Honour's high thoughts no more his mind could

move;

She sooth'd his rage, and turn'd it all to love:
When straight a gust of fierce devotion blows,
And in a moment all her joys o'erthrows:
The poor Armida tears her golden hair,
Matchless, till now, for love or for despair.
Who is not mov'd while the sad nymph complains?
Yet you now act what Tasso only feigns:
And after all our vows, our sighs, our tears,
My banish'd sorrows, and your conquer'd fears;
So many doubts, so many dangers past,
Visions of zeal must vanquish me at last.

Thus, in great Homer's war, throughout the field,
Some hero still made all things mortal yield;
But when a god once took the vanquish'd side,
The weak prevail'd, and the victorious dy'd.

THE VISION.

WRITTEN DURING A 6EA VOYAGE, WHEN SENT TO COM MAND THE FORCES FOR THE RELIEF OF TANGIER.

WITHIN the silent shades of soft repose, Where Fancy's boundless stream for ever flows; Where the enfranchis'd soul at ease can play, Tir'd with the toilsome business of the day;