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Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine;
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine:
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again.

CLXI. JANE ELLIOTT, 17**—17**.


I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters are lyart, end runkled, and gray;
At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming,
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits dreary, lamenting her dearie
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;

The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost,
The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.
We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.



What are wishes? wishes will not do;
One cannot cut one's cake and have it too.



Hail, loveliest art! that canst all hearts ensnare
And make the fairest still appear more fair!
Beauty can little execution do,

Unless she borrows half her charms from you;
Few, like Pygmalion, doat on lifeless charms,
Or care to clasp a statue in their arms;
But breasts of flint must melt with fierce desire,
When art and motion wake the sleeping fire.
A Venus, drawn by great Apelles' hand,
May for a while our wondering eyes command,
But still, though formed with all the powers of art,
The lifeless piece can never warm the heart;
So a fair nymph, perhaps, may please the eye,
Whilst all her beauteous limbs inactive lie,
But, when her charms are in the dance displayed,
Then every heart adores the lovely maid:
This sets her beauty in the fairest light,
And shows each grace in full perfection bright;
Then, as she turns around, from every part,
Like porcupines, she sends a piercing dart;
In vain, alas! the fond spectator tries
To shun the pleasing dangers of her eyes,
For, Parthian-like, she wounds as sure behind,
With flowing curls and ivory neck reclined:
Whether her steps the minuet's mazes trace,
Or the slow Louvre's more majestic pace;
Whether the rigadoon employs her care,
Or spritely jig displays the nimble fair,
At every step new beauties we explore,
And worship now what we admired before.
So, when Æneas in the Tyrian grove
Fair Venus met, the charming queen of love,
The beauteous goddess, whilst unmoved she stood,
Seemed some fair nymph, the guardian of the wood;
But, when she moved, at once her heavenly mien
And graceful step confess bright beauty's queen,
New glories o'er her form each moment rise,
And all the goddess open to his eyes.



Little tube of mighty power
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm desire,
Lip of wax, and eye of fire;
And thy snowy taper waist,
With my finger gently braced;
And thy pretty swelling crest
With my little stopper prest,
And the sweetest bliss of blisses,
Breathing from thy balmy kisses,
Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men,
Who, when again the night returns,
When again the taper burns,
When again the cricket's gay,
(Little cricket full of play,)
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed:
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men.



LIKE Nature's law, no eloquence persuades,
The mute harangue our every sense invades ;
The apparent precepts of the eternal will,
His every work and every object fill:
Round with our eyes his revelation wheels,
Our every touch his demonstration feels.
And, O Supreme! when'er we cease to know

Thee, the sole source whence sense and science flow;
Then must all faculty, all knowledge fail,

And more than monster o'er the man prevail.
Not thus he gave our optics' vital glance,

Amid omniscient art, to search for chance,

Blind to the charms of Nature's beauteous frame:
Nor made our organ vocal to blaspheme:

Nor thus he willed the creatures of his nod,
And made the mortal to unmake his God;
Breathed on the globe, and brooded o'er the wave,
And bade the wide obsequious world conceive;
Spoke into being myriads, myriads rise,

And, with young transport, gaze the novel skies:
Glance from the surge, beneath the surface scud,
Or cleave enormous the reluctant flood;

Or roll vermicular, their wanton maze,

And the bright path with wild meanders glaze;
Frisk in the vale, or o'er the mountains bound,
Or in huge gambols shake the trembling ground;
Swarm in the beam, or spread the plumy sail-
The plume creates, and then directs the gale;
While active gaiety, and aspect bright,
In each expressive, sums up all delight.



Sweet bird, that sing'st on yonder spray,
Pursue unharmed thy sylvan lay;
While I, beneath this breezy shade,
In peace repose my careless head;
And joining thy enraptured song,
Instruct the world-enamoured throng,
That the contented harmless breast
In solitude itself is blest.

CLXVII. F. COVENTRY, 17**-1759.


Genius of Penshurst old!

Who saw'st the birth of each immortai oak,
Here sacred from the stroke;

And all thy tenants of yon turrets bold,
Inspir'st to arts or arms;

Where Sidney his Arcadian lanscape drew,
Genuine from thy Doric view;

And patriot Algernon unshaken rose
Above insulting foes,

And Saccharissa nursed her angel charms

O suffer me with sober tread
To enter on thy holy shade;
Bid smoothly-gliding Medway stand,
And wave his sedgy tresses bland:
A stranger let him kindly greet,
And pour his urn beneath my feet.

Nor does the heiress of these shades deny
To bend her bright majestic eye,

Where Beauty shines, and Friendship warm,
And Honour in a female form.

With them in aged groves to walk,

And lose my thoughts in artless talk,
I shun the voice of party loud,
I shun loose pleasure's idle crowd,
And monkish academic cell,
Where science only feigns to dweli,
And court, where speckled vanity
Apes her tricks in tawdry die,
And shifts each hour her tinsel hue,
Still furbelow'd in folly's new.
Here nature no distortion wears;
Old truth retains his silver hairs,
And chastity her matron step,
And purple health her rosy lip.
Ah! on the virgin's gentle brow,
How innocence delights to glow!
Unlike the town-dame's haughty air,
The scornful eye and harlot's stare;
But bending mild the bashful front,
As modest fear is ever wont:
Shepherdesses such of old,

Doric bards enamour'd told,
While the pleased Arcadian vale

Echoed the enchanting tale.



Must it not wondrous seem to hearts like thine,
That God, to other animals benign,

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