You saw my heart, how it my tongue belied,
And when you pressed, how faintly I denied.
Ere guardian thought could bring its scattered aid,
Ere reason could support the doubting maid,
My soul surprised, and from herself disjoined,
Left all reserve, and all the sex behind;
From your command her motions she received;
And not for me, but you, she breathed and lived.
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 crowned,
By thy each look, and thought, and care, 'tis shown,
Thy joys are centred all in me alone;
And sure am I, thou wouldst not change this hour
For all the white ones Fate has in its power.
Yet thus beloved, 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,
Upon 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 delighted, and the Graces played;
Insulting Age will trace his cruel way,
And leave sad marks of his destructive sway.
Moved by my charms, with them your love may cease, And as the fuel sinks, the flame decrease;
Or angry
Heaven may quicker darts prepare,
And Sickness strike what Time awhile 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 obscured your rising name, 60
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 abandoned breast to bring you back;
When my lost lover the tall ship ascends,
With music gay, and wet with jovial friends,
The tender accents of a woman's cry
Will pass unheard, will unregarded die;
When the rough seaman'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 a foreign strand,
Warm with new fires, and pleased 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 himself (the only friend I have)
May scorn his triumph, having bound his slave.
That tyrant god, that restless conqueror
May quit his pleasure, to 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 beams of Celia's eyes;
With haughty pride may hear her charms con-
fessed;
And scorn the ardent vows that I have blessed;
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
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;
From this dear bosom shall I ne'er be torn ;
Or you grow cold, respectful, and forsworn?
And can you not for her you love do more,
Than any youth for any nymph before?
PRESENTED TO THE KING, ON HIS MAJESTY'S ARRIVAL IN HOLLAND, AFTER THE QUEEN'S DEATH.
Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Tam cari capitis? Præcipe lugubres
Cantus, Melpomene.
1 Ar Mary's tomb, (sad sacred place!)
The virtues shall their vigils keep:
And every Muse, and every Grace
In solemn state shall ever weep.
2 The future, pious, mournful fair,
Oft as the rolling years return,
With fragrant wreaths, and flowing hair,
Shall visit her distinguished urn.
3 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.
4 Fair Albion shall, with faithful trust,
Her holy Queen's sad reliques guard;
1 Queen Mary died on the 28th December, 1694, in the 33d year of her age.
Till Heaven awakes the precious dust,
And gives the saint her full reward.
5 But let the king dismiss his woes,
Reflecting on his fair renown;
And take the cypress from his brows,
To put his wonted laurels on.
6 If pressed by grief our monarch stoops;
In vain the British lions roar:
If he, whose hand sustained them, droops,
The Belgic darts will wound no more.
7 Embattled princes wait the chief,
Whose voice should rule, whose arm should lead,
And, in kind murmurs, chide that grief,
Which hinders Europe being freed.
8 The great example they demand,
Who still to conquest led the way;
Wishing him present to command,
As they stand ready to obey.
9 They seek that joy, which used to glow,
Expanded on the hero's face;
When the thick squadrons pressed the foe,
And William led the glorious chase.
10 To give the mourning nations joy,
Restore them thy auspicious light,
Great sun, with radiant beams destroy
Those clouds, which keep thee from our sight.
11 Let thy sublime meridian course
For Mary's setting rays atone;
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