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See, how beneath yon hillock's shady steep, Here, half-conceal'd in trees, a cottage stands,
And distant hills the wide horizon bound :
So charming was the scene, a while the swain And on her bosom dwells more soft repose. Beheld delighted, and forgot his pain :
“Ah! how, my dear, shall I deserve thy charms ? But soon the stings infix’d within his heart What gift can bribe thee to my longing arms ? With cruel force renew'd their raging smart: A bird for thee in silken bands I hold,
His flowery wreath, which long with pride he wore, Whose yellow plumage shines like polish'd gold; The gift of Delia, from his brows he tore, From distant isles the lovely stranger came, Then cried, “ May all thy charms, ungrateful maid, And bears the fortunate Canaries' name ;
Like these neglected roses, droop and fade! In all our woods none boasts so sweet a note, May angry Heaven deform each guilty grace, Not ev'n the nightingale's melodious throat. That triumphs now in that deluding face! Accept of this; and could I add beside
Those alter'd looks may every shepherd fly, What wealth the rich Peruvian mountains hide: And ev'n thy Daphnis hate thee worse than I! If all the gems in eastern rocks were mine,
“Say, thou inconstant, what has Damon done, On thee alone their glittering pride should shine. To lose the heart his tedious pains had won? But, if thy mind no gifts have power to move, Tell me what charms you in my rival find, Phæbus himself shall leave th' Aonian grove: Against whose power no ties have strength to bind? The tuneful Nine, who never sue in vain, Has he, like me, with long obedience strove Shall come sweet suppliants for their favorite To conquer your disdain, and merit love ? swain.
Has he with transport every smile ador'd, For him each blue-ey'd Naiad of the flood, And died with grief at each ungentle word ? For him each green-hair’d sister of the wood, Ah, no! the conquest was obtain'd with ease; Whom oft beneath fair Cynthia's gentle ray He pleas'd you, by not studying to please : His music calls to dance the night away.
His careless indolence your pride alarm'd; And you, fair nymphs, companions of my love, And, had he lov'd you more, he less had charm'd. With whom she joys the cowslip meads to rove, “O) pain to think! another shall possess I beg you recommend my faithful flame,
Those balmy lips which I was wont to press : And let her often hear her shepherd's name: Another on her panting breast shall lie, Shade all my faults from her inquiring sight, And catch sweet madness from her swimming eye! And show my merits in the fairest light: I saw their friendly pocks together feed, My pipe your kind assistance shall repay, I saw them hand in hand walk o'er the mead: And every friend shall claim a different lay. Would
had sunk in endless night, “But see! in yonder glade the heavenly fair Ere I was doom'd to bear that hateful sight! Enjoys the fragrance of the breezy air
Where'er they pass’d, be blasted every flower, Ah, thither let me fly with eager feet;
And hungry wolves their helpless flocks devour: Adieu, my pipe; I go my love to meet
Ah, wretched swain, could no examples move 0, may I find her as we parted last,
Thy heedless heart to shun the rage of love?
Dear was the youth to all the tuneful plain,
Around his tomb their tears the Muses paid;
And all things mourn'd, but the relentless maid. JEALOUSY.
Would I could die like him, and be at peace ! Eclogue III.
These torments in the quiet grave would cease ;
There my vex'd thoughts a calm repose would find,
And rest, as if my Delia still were kind.
Alas! what aid, fond swain, wouldst thou receive? In gentle love the sweetest joys we find :
Could thy heart bear to see its Delia grieve? Yet ev'n those joys dire Jealousy molests,
Protect her, Heaven! and let her never know And blackens each fair image in our breasts. The slightest part of hapless Damon's woe: O may the warmth of thy too tender heart I ask no vengeance from the powers above ; Ne'er feel the sharpness of his venom'd dart ! All I implore is never more to love.For thy own quiet, think thy mistress just, Let me this fondness from my bosom tear, And wisely take thy happiness on trust.
Let me forget that e'er I thought her fair. Begin, my Muse, and Damon's woes rehearse, Come, cool Indifference, and heal my breast; In wildest numbers and disorder'd verse.
Wearied, at length, I seek thy downy rest : On a romantic mountain's airy head
No turbulence of passion shall destroy (While browsing goats at ease around him fed) My future case with flattering hopes of joy. Anxious he lay, with jealous cares opprest; Hear, mighty Pan, and, all ye sylvans, hear Distrust and anger laboring in his breast- What by your guardian deities I swear; The vale beneath a pleasing prospect yields No more my eyes shall view her fatal charm, Of verdant meads and cultivated fields;
No more I'll court the traitress to my arms: Through these a river rolls its winding flood, Not all her arts my steady soul shall move, Adorn’d with various tufts of rising wood; And she shall find that reason conquers love!".
Scarce had he spoke, when through the lawn below On all her days let health and peace attend; Alone he saw the beauteous Delia go;
May she ne'er want, nor ever lose, a friend ! At once transported, he forgot his vow,
May some new pleasure every hour employ: Such perjuries the laughing gods allow!)
But let her Damon be her highest joy! Down the steep hills with ardent haste he few; “ With thee, my love, for ever will I stay, He found her kind, and soon believ'd her true. All night caress thee, and admire all day;
In the same field our mingled flocks we'll feed,
To the same spring our thirsty heisers lead,
Together will we share the harvest toils,
Together press the vine's autumnal spoils.
Delightful state, where Peace and Love combine, TO LORD COBHAM.
To bid our tranquil days unclouded shine! COBHAM, to thee this rural lay I bring,
Here limpid fountains roll through flowery meads, Whose guiding judgment gives me skill to sing : Here rising forests lift their verdant heads; Though far unequal to those polish'd strains, Here let me wear my careless life away, With which thy Congreve charm’d the listening And in thy arms insensibly decay. plains :
“When late old age our heads shall silver o'er Yet shall its music please thy partial ear,
And our slow pulses dance with joy no more; And soothe thy breast with thoughts that once were When Time no longer will thy beauties spare, dear;
And only Damon's eye shall think thee fair; Recall those years which Time has thrown behind, Then may the gentle hand of welcome Death, When smiling Love with Honor shar'd thy mind :
At one soft stroke, deprive us both of breath! When all thy glorious days of prosperous fight May we beneath one common stone be laid, Delighted less than one successful night.
And the same cypress both our ashes shade! The sweet remembrance shall thy youth restore,
Perhaps some friendly Muse, in tender verse
Beneath the covert of a myrtle wood,
TO THE REVEREND DR. AYSCOUGH, Nor there in sprightly Pleasure's genial train,
AT OXFORD. Lurk'd sick Disgust, or late-repenting Pain, Nor Force, nor Interest, join'd unwilling hands, Say, dearest friend, how roll thy hours away? But Love consenting tied the blissful bands. What pleasing study cheats the tedious day? Thither, with glad devotion, Damon came, Dost thou the sacred volumes oft explore To thank the powers who bless'd his faithful flame: Of wise Antiquity's immortal lore, Two milk-white doves he on their altar laid, Where virtue, by the charms of wit refin'd, And thus to both his grateful homage paid : At once exalts and polishes the mind ? “Hail, bounteous god! before whose hallow'd shrine How different from our modern guilty art, My Delia vow'd to be for ever mine,
Which pleases only to corrupt the heart; While, glowing in her cheeks, with tender love, Whose curst refinements odious vice adorn, Sweet virgin-modesty reluctant strove!
And teach to honor what we ought to scorn! And hail to thee, fair queen of young desires! Dost thou in sage historians joy to see Long shall my heart preserve thy pleasing fires, How Roman greatness rose with liberty : Since Delia now can all its warmth return, How the same hands that tyrants durst control As fondly languish, and as fiercely burn.
Their empire stretch'd from Atlas to the Pole; "O the dear bloom of last propitious night! Till wealth and conquest into slaves refin'd O shade more charming than the fairest light! The proud luxurious masters of mankind ? Then in my arms I clasp'd the melting maid, Dost thou in letter'd Greece each charm admire Then all my pains one moment overpaid ;
Each grace, each virtue, Freedom could inspire, Then first the sweet excess of bliss I prov'd, Yet in her troubled state see all the woes, Which none can taste but who like me have lov'd. And all the crimes, that giddy faction knows; Thou too, bright goddess, once, in Ida's grove, Till, rent by parties, by corruption sold, Didst not disdain to meet a shepherd's love; Or weakly careless, or too rashly bold, With him, while frisking lambs around you play'd, She sunk beneath a mitigated doom, Conceal'd you sported in the secret shade: The slave and tutoress of protecting Rome? Scarce could Anchises' raptures equal mine, Does calm Philosophy her aid impart, And Delia's beauties only yield to thine.
To guide the passions, and to mend the heart? “What are ye now, my once most valued joys? Taught by her precepts, hast thou learnt the end Insipid trifles all, and childish toys
To which alone the wise their studies bend; Friendship itself ne'er knew a charm like this, For which alone by Nature were design'd Nor Colin's talk could please like Delia's kiss. The powers of thought—to benefit mankind ?
“ Ye Muses, skill'd in every winning art, Not, like a cloister'd drone, to read and doze, Teach me more deeply to engage her heart; In undeserving, undeserv'd, repose; Ye nymphs, to her your freshest roses bring, But reason's influence to diffuse ; to clear And crown her with the pride of all the Spring : Th' enlighten'd world of every gloomy fear;
Dispel the mists of error, and unbind
Where ev'n mute walls are taught to flatter state, Those pedant chains that clog the free-born mind. And painted triumphs style Ambition GREAT." Happy who thus his leisure can employ!
With more delight those pleasing shades I view He knows the purest hours of tranquil joy ; Where Condé from an envious court withdrewnto Nor vext with pangs that busier bosoms tear, Where, sick of glory, faction, power, and pride, Nor lost to social virtue's pleasing care ;
(Sure judge how empty all, who all had tried !) Safe in the port, yet laboring to sustain
Beneath his palms the weary chief repos'd, Those who still float on the tempestuous main. And life's great scene in quiet virtue clos'd. So Locke the days of studious quiet spent;
With shame that other fam'd retreat I see, So Boyle in wisdom found divine content;
Adorn'd by art, disgrac'd by luxury: I So Cambray, worthy of a happier doom,
Where Orleans wasted every vacant hour, The virtuous slave of Louis and of Rome.
In the wild riot of unbounded power; Good Wor'ster* thus supports his drooping age, Where feverish debauch and impious love Far from court-flattery, far from party-rage;
Stain'd the mad table and the guilty grove. He, who in youth a tyrant's frown defied,
With these amusements is thy friend detain'd, Firm and intrepid on his country's side,
Pleas'd and instructed in a foreign land; Her boldest champion then, and now her mildest Yet oft a tender wish recalls my mind guide!
From present joys to dearer left behind.
O native isle, fair Freedom's happiest seat!
No power can ravish from th' industrious swain ?
When kiss, with pious love, the sacred earth
Propt by their care, or strengthen'd by their blood
Of fearless independence wisely vain,
Yet, oh! what doubt, what sad presaging voice,
Bids their lost rights, their ruin'd glory see:
A nation here I pity and admire,
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears, (In courts a mean, in camps a generous band,)
I would approach, but dare not move:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Whene'er she speaks, my ravishd car
No other wit but hers approve :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If she some other youth commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend, Who, from the ancients, like the ancients writ,
His instant enemy I prove :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love ?
When she is absent, I do more
Delight in all that pleas'd before, By keen, yet decent, satire skill'd to please,
The clearest spring, or shadiest grove :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When, fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain, The soften'd heart to pity and to love.
I strove to hate, but vainly strove :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
* The victories of Louis the Fourteenth, painted in the
galleries of Versailles. * Bishop Hough.
1 St. Cloud.
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Of grief surpassing every other woe,
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires, inelegant and low.
Ye tusted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'ershadowing hills,
Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!
But never shall you now behold her more :
Nor will she now with fond delight
And taste refind your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine
Reason's pure light and Virtue's spark divine.
Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;
The sweetest songsters of the spring :
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more ;
The nightingale was mute,
And every shepherd's flute
Was cast in silent scorn away,
While all attended to her sweeter lay.
Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song,
And thou, melodious Philomel,
Again thy plaintive story tell ;
For Death has stopt that tuneful tongue,
In vain I look around
O'er all the well-known ground,
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry;
Where oft we us'd to walk,
Where oft in tender talk
We saw the summer Sun go down the sky;
Nor by yon fountain's side,
Nor where its waters glide
Along the valley, can she now be found :
In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound
No more my mournful eye
Can aught of her espy,
But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.
O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast ?
You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts
To your sequester'd dales
And flower-embroider'd vales
From an admiring world she chose to fly:
With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,
The silent paths of wisdom trod,
And banish'd every passion from her breast,
But those, the genilest and the best,
Whose holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
From every duty, every care,
By your delighted mother's side,
Who now your infant steps shall guide ?
Ah! where is nuw the hand whose tender care At least, ye Nine, her spotless name
With golden characters her worth engrave.
Come then, ye virgin-sisters, come, O wretched father! left alone,
And strew with choicest flowers her hallow'd tomb To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own! But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad, How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd with woe, With accents sweet and sad, And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,
Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's urn Perform the duties that you doubly owe!
Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn ;
O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
Where were ye, Muses, when relentless Fate Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
From these fond arms, that vainly strove How eloquent in every look
Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly spoke!
And made each charm of polish'd courts agree Could not, alas! your power prolong her date, With candid Truth's simplicity,
For whom so oft in these inspiring shades, And uncorrupted Innocence!
She join'd the softening influence
Of more than female tenderness : Your ancient barus sublimely thought,
How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and joy And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit Which oft the care of others' good destroy, glow ?
Her kindly-melting heart,
To every want and every woe, Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,
To guilt itself when in distress,
The balm of pity would impart,
Ev'n for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life
Beneath the bloody knife, Nor where Clitumnust rolls his gentle stream, Her gentle tears would fall, Nor where through hanging woods,
Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to all
Not only good and kind,
But strong and elevated was her mind :
A spirit that with noble pride
On Fortune's smile or frown;
That could without regret or pain
To Virtue's lowest duty sacrifice
Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize ;
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,
But by magnanimous disdain.
A wit that, temperately bright,
With inoffensive light
All pleasing shone ; nor ever past
The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober hand By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd;
And sweet Benevolence's mild command, Or what in Britain's isle,
And bashful Modesty, before it cast. Most favor'd with your smile,
A prudence undeceiving, undeceivid, The powers of Reason and of Fancy join'd
That nor too little nor 100 much believ'd, To full perfection have conspir'd to raise ?
That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear, Ah! what is now the use
And without weakness knew to be sincere. of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind, Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest days, To black Oblivion's gloom for ever now consign'd. Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise,
In life's and glory's freshest bloom,
Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the tomb * The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of Virgil.
| The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of So, where the silent streams of Liris glide, Propertius.
In the soft bosom of Campania's vale, 1 The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where Hor. When now the wintry tempests all are fled, ace had a villa.
And genial Summer breathes her gentle gale, $ The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head : supposed to be born on its banks, is called Melisigenes. From every branch the balmy flowerets rise | The Ilissus is a river at Athens.
On every bough the golden fruits are seen :