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TRUST not, sweet Soul! those curled waves of gold,
Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show
Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams
SWEET Soul! which in the April of thy years,
For to enrich the Heaven, mad'st poor this round; And now, with flaming rays of glory crown'd, Most blest abid'st above the sphere of spheres! If heavenly laws, alas! have not thee bound From looking to this globe, that all upbears; If ruth and pity there above be found; O! deign to lend a look unto these tears, Do not disdain, dear Ghost! this sacrifice. And though I raise not pillars to thy praise, My offerings take; let this for me suffice, My heart a living pyramid I raise!
And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish green, Thineshall with myrtles and these flowers be seen.
This lady was the daughter of a Mr. Cunningham, of Barnes. According to the information respecting, her to be gleaned from the praises of her lover, she was not only royally descended, but, with the most animating per sonal attractions, possessed a highly intelligent mind, a voice of melody, and was constitutionally cheerful. His addresses, fervently offered, being at last accepted, the day was appointed for the celebration of their nuptials; when the expected bride was suddenly seized with a fever, which in a short time terminated her life, in the bloom and April of her Years!" This shock, that must have seriously affected even an ordinary mind, Drummond never properly recovered.
And paint the sable skies
Give life to this dark world that lieth dead.
In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
With diadem of pearl thy temples fair.
Chase hence the ugly night,
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
But shew thy blushing beams;
And thou two sweeter eyes
Shall see, than those which by Penéus' streams
Did once thy heart surprise.
Now Flora decks herself in fairest guise.
If that, ye winds, would hear
A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels.
And nothing wanting is, save she, alas!
WE that have known no greater state
Than this we live in, praise our fate: For courtly silks in cares are spent, When country's russet breeds content. The power of sceptres we admire, But sheep-hooks for our use desire. Simple and low is our condition, For here with us is no ambition; We with the sun our flocks unfold, Whose rising makes their fleeces gold. "Our music from the birds we borrow, They bidding us, we them, good-morrow."
Our habits are but coarse and plain, Yet they defend from wind and rain As warm too, in an equal eye, As those be stain'd in scarlet dye... The shepherd, with his home-spun lass, As many merry hours doth pass As courtiers with their costly girls, Though richly deck'd in gold and pearls; And, though but plain, to purpose woo, Nay often with less danger too. Those that delight in dainties store, One stomach feed at once, no more; And, when with homely fare we feast, With us it doth as well digest; And many times we better speed, For our wild fruits no surfeits breed. If we sometimes the willow wear, By subtle swains that dare forswear, We wonder whence it comes, and fear They've been at court and learnt it there.
IT chanc'd of late a shepherd swain,
That went to seek his straying sheep, Within the thicket, on the plain,
Espied a dainty nymph asleep.
Her golden hair o'erspread her face,
Her breast lay bare to every blast.
Whom if she wak'd he durst not see, Behind her closely seeks to creep,
Before her nap should ended be. There come, he steals her shafts away, And puts his own into their place; Nor dares he any longer stay,
But ere she wakes hies thence apace. Scarce was he gone but she awakes,
And spies the shepherd standing by, Her bended bow, in haste she takes, And at the simple swain lets fly.
Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart, That to the ground he fell with pain; But up again forthwith he starts,
And to the nymph he ran amain. Amaz'd to see so strange a sight, She shot, and shot, but all in vain; The more his wounds, the more his might, Love yielded strength amidst his pain.
Her angry eyes were great with tears,
She blames her hand, she blames her skill, The bluntness of her shafts she fears,
And try them on herself she will.
Take heed, sweet nymph, try not thy shaft,
Yet try she will, and pierce some bare,
At feeling of this new-come guest,
Lord! how the gentle nymph did start.
She runs not now, she shoots no more.
The God of Love sat on a tree,
SOME there are as fair to see to,
But by art and not by nature;