תמונות בעמוד

Propitious god of love, thy succour bring,
Whilst I thy darling, thy Alexis sing;
Alexis, as the opening blossoms fair,
Lovely as light, and soft as yielding air.
For him each virgin sighs; and, on the plains,
The happy youth above each rival reigns.
Nor to the echoing groves, and whispering spring,
In sweeter strains, does artful Conon sing;
When loud applauses fill the crowded groves,
And Phoebus the superior song approves. -

SYLVIA. Beauteous Aminta is as early light, Breaking the melancholy shades of night. When she is near, all anxious trouble flies, And our reviving hearts confess her eyes. Young love, and blooming joy, and gay desires, In every breast the beauteous nymph inspires; And on the plain when she no more appears, The plain a dark and gloomy prospect wears. In vain the streams roll on: the eastern breeze Pances in vain among the trembling trees: In vain the birds begin their evening song, And to the silent night their notes prolong : Nor groves, nor crystal streams, nor verdant field, Does wonted pleasure in her absence yield. AMARYLi,is. And, in his absence, all the pensive day, In some obscure retreat, I lonely stray; All day to the repeating caves complain, In mourn ul accents and a dying strain: “Dear lovely youth,” I cry to all around; “Dear lovely youth,” the flattering vales resound. SYLVIA. On flowery banks, by every murmuring stream, Aminta is my Muse's softest theme: 'Tis she that does my artful notes refine; [shine. With fair Aminta's name my noblest verse shall

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By Sylvia, if thy charming self be meant;
If friendship be thy virgin vows extent:
Oh' let me in Aminta's praises join :
Her's my esteen shall be, my passion thine.
When for thy head the garland I prepare,
A second wreath shall bind Aminta's hair;
And, when my choicest songs thy worth proclaim,
Alternate verse shall bless Aminta's name;
My heart shall own the justice of her cause,
And Love himself submit to Friendship's laws.
But if, beneath thy numbers' soft disguise,
Some favour’d swain, some true Alexis lies;
If Amaryllis breathes thy secret pains,
And thy fond heart beats measure to thy strains;
May'st thou, howe’er I grieve, for ever find
The same propitious, and the lover kind'
May Venus long exert her happy power,
And make thy beauty, like thy verse, endure!

May every god his friendly aid afford,
Pan guard thy flock, and Ceres bless thy board t
But if, by chance, the series of thy joys
Permit one thought less cheerful to arise,
Piteous transfer it to the mournful swain,
Who, loving much, who, not belov'd again,
Feels an ill-fated passion's last excess,
And dies in woe, that thou may'st live in peace.


she refusing to continue A Dispute wirh Me, Asn LEAvi Nc Me IN THE ARGUMENT,

AN Ope.

SrArr, generous victor, spare the slave, Who did uneqoal war pursue;

That more than triumph he might have, In being overcome by you.

In the dispute, whate'er I said,
My heart was by my tongue belied;
And in my looks you might have read
How much I argued on your side.
You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have sustain'd an open fight;
For seldom your opinions crr;
Your eyes are always in the right.
Why, fair one, would you not rely
On Reason's force with Beauty's join'd?
Could I their prevalence deny,
I must at once be deaf and blind.
Alas! not hoping to subdue,
I only to the fight aspir'd:
To keep the beauteous foe in view
Was all the glory I desir'd.
But she, howe'er of victory sure,
Contemns the wreath too long delay'd;
And, arm'd with more immediate power,
Calls cruel Silence to her aid.
Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight;
She drops her arms, to gain the field;
Secures her conquest by her flight;
And triumphs, when she seems to yield.
So, when the Parthian turn’d his steed,
And from the hostile camp withdrew,
With cruct skill the backward reed
He sent; and, as he fled, he slew.

seri NG THE DURE OF ORMOND'S PICTURE At sin Godfrey kNEller's.

Our from the injur'd canvass, Kneller, strike
These limes too faint: the picture is not like.
Exalt thy thought, and try thy toil again:
Dreadful in arms, on Landen's glorious plain
Place Ormond's duke: impendent in the air
Let his keen sabre, comet-like, appear,
Where'er it points, denouncing death: below
Draw routed squadrons, and the numerous foe,
Falling beneath, or flying from his blow:
Till, weak with wounds, and cover'd o'er with b
Which from the patriot's breast in torrents flow'd,

He faints; his steed no longer feels the rein; 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 terrour, 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.


Atque in amore mala haec proprio, summéque 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 my Celia has already done *
Thy infant flames, while yet they were conceal’d
In timorous doubts, with pity I beheld;
With easy smiles dispell'd the silent fear,
That durst not tell me what I dy'd to hear.
In vain I strove to check my growing flame,
Or shelter passion under Friendship's name,
You saw my heart, how it my tongue bely’d ;
And when you press'd, how faintly I deny'd.—
Ere guardian Thought could bring its scatter'd aid,
Fre Reason could support the doubting maid,
My soul, surpris'd, and from herself disjoin'd,
Left 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 center'd all in me alone;
And sure I am, thou wouldst not change this hour
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 afflicts 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 :
But with no owner Beauty long will stay,
Upcn 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 desighted, 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 And, as the fuel sinks, the flame decrease: [cease, Or angry Heaven may quicker darts prepare, And Sickness strike what Time a while 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 indifference 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 accent of a woman's cry Will pass unheard, will unregarded die; When the rough seamen's louder shouts prevail, When fair occasion shows the springing gale, And Interest guides the helm, and Honour 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 command : While she who wrote them, of all joy bereft, To the rude censure of the world is left; Her mangled fame in barbarous 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 himselt (the only friend I have) May scorn his triumph, having bound his slave. That tyrant-god, that restless conqueror, May quit his pleasure, may assert his power; 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 beans o Celia's eyes; With haughty pride may hear her charms confest, And scorn the ardent vows that I have blest. You every 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 circling you, may prove More heavy chains than those of hopeless love. Just gods' all other things their like produce; The Vine arises from her mother's juice: When feeble plants or tender flowers decay, They to their seed their images convey: Where the old Myrtle her good influence sheds, Sprigs of like leaf erect their filial heads: And when the parent Rose decays and dies, With a resembling face the daughter buds arise. That product only which our passions bear Eludes the planter's miserable care. While blooming Love assures us golden fruit, Some inborn poison taints the secret root: Soon fall the flowers of Joy, soon seeds of Hatred shoot. Say, shepherd, say, are these reflections true? Or was it but the woman's fear that drew This cruel scene, unjust to love and you? Will you be only and for ever mine? Shall neither time nor age our souls disjoin

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Pisu, Lord, I wish this prologue was but Greek,
Then young Clconidas would boldly speak;
But can lord Buckhurst in poor English say,
Gentle spectators, pray excuse the play?
No, witness all ye gods of ancient Greece,
Rather than condescend to terms like these,
‘I’d go to school six hours on Christmas-day,
Or construe Persius while my comrades play.
Such work by hireling actors should be done,
Who tremble when they see a critic frown;
Poor rogues, that smart like fencers for their bread,
And, if they are not wounded, are not fed.
But, sirs, our labour has more noble ends,
We act our tragedy to see our friends:
Our generous scenes are for pure love repeated,
And if you are not pleas'd, at least you're treated.
The candles and the clothes ourselves we bought,
Our tops neglected, and our balls forgot.
To learn our parts, we left our midnight bed,
Most of you snor'd whilst Cleomenes read:
Not that from this confusion we would sue
Praise undeserved; we know ourselves and you :
Resolv'd to stand or perish by our cause,
We neither censure fear, nor beg applause,
For these are Westminster and Sparta's laws.
Yet, if we see some judgment well inclin'd,
To young desert, and growing virtue kind,
That critic by ten thousand marks should know,
That greatest souls to goodness only bow;
And that your little hero does inherit
Not Cleomenes' more than Dorset's spirit.


on ilis MAJESTY's ARRival IN hor. LAND AFTER THE quEEN’s death, 1695.

Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus Tam cari capitis 2 praecipe lugubres Cantus, Melpomene.

At Mary's tomb (sad sacred place') The Virtues shall their vigils keep:

And every Muse, and every Grace, In solemn state shall ever weep.

The future pious, mournful fair,
Oft as the rolling vears return,

With fragrant wreaths and flowing hair,
Shall visit her distinguish’d urn.

For her the wise and great shall mourn,
When late records her deeds repeat:

Ages to come, and men unborn,
Shall bless her name, and sigh her fate.

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Yet ought his sorrow to be checkt; Yet ought his passions to abate; If the great mourner would reflect, Her glory in her death complete.

She was instructed to command,
Great king, by long obeying thee;
Her sceptre, guided by thy hand,
Preserv'd the isles, and rul'd the sea.
But oh! 'twas little, that her life
O'er earth and water bears thy fame:
In death, 'twas worthy William's wife,
Amidst the stars to fix his name.
Beyond where matter moves, or place
Receives its forms, thy virtues roll;
From Mary's glory, angels trace
The beauty of her partner's soul.
Wise Fate, which does its Heaven decree
To heroes, when they yield their breath, -
Hastens thy triumph. Half of thee
Is deify’d before thy death.

Alone to thy renown 'tis given, Unbounded through all worlds to go:

While she, great saint, rejoices Heaven; And thou sustain'st the orb below.


Lor them censure: what care I?
The herd of critics I defy.
Let the wretches know, I write,
Regardless of their grace or spite.
No, no: the fair, the gay, the young,
Govern the numbers of my song;
All that they approve is sweet;
And all is sense that they repeat.

Bid the warbling Nine retire; Venus, string thy servant's lyre: Love shall be my endless theme; Pleasure shall triumph over Fame: And, when these maxims I decline, Apollo, may thy fate be mine ! May, I grasp at empty praise ; And lose the nymph, to gain the bays?


ran les armes du Roy, L'ANNEE 1692. PAR MONSTEUR so ILEAU Despreaux.

Querir docte & saint yvresse
Aujourd’hui me fait la joi?
Chastes Nymphes du Permesse,
N'est-ce pas vous que je voi:
Accourez, troupe soavante:
Des sons que ma lyre enfante
Cesarbres sont rejouis:
Marquez on bien la cadence:
Et vous, vents, faites silence:
Je vais parler de Louis.

Dans ses chansons immortelles, Comme unaigle audacieux, Pindare ëtendant scs aisles, Fuit loin des vulgaires yeux.

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