"But hush-from this auspicious hour The world, I ween, may rest in peace; And robb'd of darts, and stript of pow'r, Thy peevish petulance decrease.

Sleep on, poor child! whilst I withdraw, And this thy vile artillery hideWhen the Castalian fount she saw, And plung'd his arrows in the tide.

That magic foùnt-ill-judging maid! Shall cause you soon to curse the day You dar'd the shafts of Love invade, And gave his arms redoubled sway.

For in a stream so wondrous clear,
When angry Cupid searches round,
Will not the radiant points appear?
Will not the furtive spoils be found?

Too soon they were; and every dart, Dipp'd in the Muses' mystic spring, Acquir'd new force to wound the heart, And taught at once to love and sing.

Then farewell, ye Pierian quire!

For who will now your altars throng? From love we learn to swell the lyre,

And echo asks no sweeter song.

WRITTEN 1739.

Urit spes animi creduli mutui?
Fond hope of a reciprocal desire
Inflames the breast.

HOR.

'Twas not by Beauty's aid alone,
That Love usurp'd his airy throne,
His boasted power display'd;
'Tis kindness that secures his aim,
'Tis hope that feeds the kindling flame,
Which Beauty first convey❜d.

In Clara's eyes the lightnings view;
Her lips, with all the rose's hue

Have all its sweets combin'd;
Yet vain the blush, and faint the fire,
Till lips at once, and eyes, conspire
To prove the charmer kind.—

Though wit might gild the tempting snare
With softest accent, sweetest air,

By Envy's self admir'd;

If Lesbia's wit betray'd her scorn,
In vain might every Grace adorn
What every Muse inspir'd.

Thus airy Strephon tun'd his lyre-
He scorn'd the pangs of wild desire,
Which love-sick swains endure;
Resolv'd to brave the keenest dart,

Since frowns could never wound his heart,
And smiles-must ever cure.

But, ah! how false these maxims prove, How frail security from love,

Experience hourly shows!

Love can imagin'd smiles supply,
On every charming lip and eye
Eternal sweets bestows.

In vain we trust the fair one's eyes;
In vain the sage explores the skies,
To learn from stars his fate;
Till led by fancy wide astray,
He finds no planet mark his way;
Convinc'd and wise-too late.

As partial to their words we pray,
Then boldly join the lists of love,
With towering hopes supplied:
So heroes, taught by doubtful shrines,
Mistook their deity's designs,

Then took the field-and died.

UPON A VISIT

TO A LADY OF QUALITY,

IN WINTER, 1748.

ON fair Asteria's blissful plains,
Where ever-blooming Fancy reigns,
How pleas'd we pass the winter's day,
And charm the dull-ey'd Spleen away!

No linnet from the leafless bough,
Pours forth her note melodious now;
But all admire Asteria's tongue,
Nor wish the linnet's vernal song.

No flowers emit their transient rays;
Yet sure Asteria's wit displays

More various tints, more glowing lines,
And with perennial beauty shines.

Though rifled groves and fetter'd streams
But ill befriend a poet's dreams;
Asteria's presence wakes the lyre,
And well supplies poetic fire.
The fields have lost their lovely dye,
No cheerful azure decks the sky;
Yet still we bless the louring day,
Asteria smiles-and all is gay.

Hence let the Muse no more presume
To blame the winter's dreary gloom,
Accuse his loitering hours no more,
But, ah! their envious haste deplore.
For soon from Wit and Friendship's reign,
The social hearth, the sprightly vein,
I go-to meet the coming year
On savage plains and deserts drear !
I go-to feed on pleasures flown,
Nor find the spring my loss atone;
But 'mid the flowery sweets of May
With pride recall this winter's day.

TO MEMORY, 1748.

O MEMORY! celestial maid!

Who glean'st the flowerets cropt by Time, And, suffering not a leaf to fade,

Preserv'st the blossoms of our prime ; Bring, bring those moments to my mind, When life was new, and Lesbia kind.

And bring that garland to my sight

With which my favour'd crook she bound, And bring that wreath of roses bright

Which then my festive temples crown'd,

And to my raptur'd ear convey

The gentle things she deign'd to say.

And sketch with care the Muses' bow'r,
Where Isis rolls her silver tide,
Nor yet omit one reed or flow'r

That shines on Cherwell's verdant side;
If so thou may'st those hours prolong,
When polish'd Lycon join'd my song.

The song it 'vails not to recite

But, sure, to soothe our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appear'd more bright Than other banks, than other streams;

Or, by thy softening pencil shown,
Assume they beauties not their own?

And paint that sweetly-vacant scene
When, all beneath the poplar bough,
My spirits light, my soul serene,

I breath'd in verse one cordial vow,
That nothing should my soul inspire
But friendship warm and love entire.

Dull to the sense of new delight,

On thee the drooping Muse attends, As some fond lover, robb'd of sight,

On thy expressive power depends, Nor would exchange thy glowing lines, To live the lord of all that shines.