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Known by the gods, as near he draws, They make him umpire of the cause.
O’er a low trunk his arm he laid,
Since body from the parent Earth,
He said, and sprung with swift career
year ; Where ever since the seasons wheel, And tread on one another's heel.
'Tis well, said Jove; and, for consent,
BY MATTHEW PRIOR.
THE pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet, and lily fair,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.
Upon her brow the various wreath ; The flowers, less blooming than her face,
The scent, less fragrant than her breath. The flowers she wore along the day;
And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look'd more gay
Than glowing in their native bed.
Their odors lost, their colors past;
Her garland and her eye she cast.
As any Muse's tongue could speak, When, from its lids, a pearly tear
Stole trickling down her beauteous cheek, Dissembling what I knew too well,
My love, my life, said I, explain This change of humor : prythee tell :
That falling tear-what does it mean?
She sigh'd; she smiled: and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said, See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made.
And that of beauty, are but one;
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.
The amorous youth around her bow'd ; At night her fatal knell was rung:
I saw, and kiss'd her in her shroud. Such as she is, who died to-day,
Such I, alas, may be to-morrow. Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.
A DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.
BY WILLIAM COLLINS.
I. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb,
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove :
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No goblins lead their nightly crew : The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
Shall kindly lend his little aid :
In tempests shake the sylvan cell:
For thee the tear be duly shed:
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON,
BY WILLIAM COLLINS.
IN yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave!
His airy harp shall now be laid,
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar
To bid his gentle spirit rest!
And oft as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
And, 'mid the varied landscape, weep.