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Awake, my Laura, break the silken chain ;
Still dost thou sleep? awake, imprudent fair :
Forsake thy drowsy couch, and sprightly rise, While yet fresh morning streaks the ruddy skies ; While yet the birds their early matins sing, And all around us blooming as the spring : Ere sultry Phæbus, with his scorching ray, Has drank the dew-drops from their mansion gay,
• For is there aught in sleep can charm the wise?
To lie in dull oblivion, losing half
Scorch'd every flower, embrown'd each drooping
green, Pall’d the pure air, and chased the pleasing scene.
Still dost thou sleep? O rise, imprudent fair : Few hours has life, nor of those few can spare.
But this, perhaps, was but a summer song, And winter nights are dark, and cold, and long. Weak reason that, for sleeping past the morn; Yet urged by sloth, and by indulgence born. 0, rather haste to rise, my slumbering friend, While feeble suns their scanty influence lend; While cheerful day-light yet adorns the skies, Awake, my friend ! my Laura, haste to rise. For soon the uncertain short-lived day shall fail, And soon shall night extend her sooty veil. Blank nature fades, black shades and phantoms
Otherefore sleep no more, imprudent fair :
Think of the task those hours have yet in view ; Reason to arm, and passion to subdue; While life's fair calm and flattering moments last, To fence your inind against the stormy blast; Early to hoard blest Wisdom's peace-fraught store, Ere yet your bark forsakes the friendly shore, And the winds whistle, and the billows roar. Imperfect beings! weakly arm'd to bear Pleasure's soft wilęs, or Sorrow's open war;
Alternate shocks from different sides to feel,
ON READING THE LOVE ELEGIES, 1742.
Hither your wreaths, ye drooping Muses, bring;
The 'short-lived rose, that blooms but to decay; Love's fragrant myrtles, that in Paphos spring;
And deathless Poetry's immortal bay,
Aud 0, thou gentlest shade, accept the verse,
Mean though it be, and artlessly sincere, That pensive thus attends thy silent hearse,
And steals, in secret shades, the pious tear.
What heart, by Heaven with generous softness
bless'd, But in thy lines its pative language reads; Where helpless Love, in classic plainness dress'd,
Gracefully mourns, and elegantly bleeds ?
Io vain, alas, thy fancy, fondly gay,
Traced the fair scenes of dear domestic life! The sportive Loves forsook their wanton play,
To paint for thee the mistress, friend, and wife.
One caught from Delia's lips the winning smile ;
One froin her eyes his little soul inspired ; Then seized thy pen, and smoothed thy flowing
style; Then wept, and trembled, and with sobs admired. O luckless lover! form’d for better days,