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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 flew; “ 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 Alocks we 'll feed, POSSESSION.

To the same spring our thirsty heifers lead,

| Together will we share the larvest toils, Eclogue IV.

i Together press the vine's autumnal spoils.

¡ Delightful state, where Peace and Love combine, TO LORD COBHAM.

i To bid our tranquil days unclouded shine!

Here limpid fountains roll through flowery meads; COBHAM, to thee this rural lay I bring,

| Here rising forests lift their verdant heads; Whose guiding judgment gives me skill to sing : Here let me wear my careless life away, Though far unequal to those polish'd strains, | And in thy arms insensibly decay. With which thy Congreve charm’d the listening “ When late old age our heads shall silver o'er, plains :

| And our slow pulses dance with joy no more; Yet shall its music please thy partial ear, (dear; / When Time no longer will thy beauties spare, And soothe thy breast with thoughts that once were 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 Honour 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, Fancy again shall run past pleasures o'er;

Shall deign our faithful passion to rehearse ;
And, while in Stowe's enchanting walks you stray, And future ages, with just envy mov'd,
This theme may help to cheat the summer's day. Be told how Damon and his Delia lov'd.”

Beneath the covert of a myrtle wood,
To Venus rais'd, a rustic altar stood.
To Venus and to Hymen, there combin'd,
In friendly league to favour human kind.
With wanton Cupids, in that happy shade, | TO THE REVEREND DR. AYSCOUGII,
The gentle Virtues and mild Wisdom play'd.
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 honour 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 stretched 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 trifies 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 errour, 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 viex, He knows the purest hours of tranquil joy; Where Condé from an envious court withdrew ti 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 labouring 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 : 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 defy'd,

With these amusements is thy friend detain'd, Firm and intrepid on his country's side, [guide! Pleas'd and instructed in a foreign land; Her boldest champion then, and now her mildest Yet oft a tender wish recalls my mind O generous warmth! O sanctity divine !

From present joys to dearer left behind. To emulate his worth, my friend, be thine :

O native isle, fair Freedom's happiest seat! Learn from his life the duties of the gown; | At thought of thee, my bounding pulses beat ; Learn, not to flatter, nor insult the crown;

At thought of thee, my heart impatient burns, Nor, basely servile, court the guilty great,

And all my country on my soul returns. Nor raise the church a rival to the state :

When shall I see thy fields, whose plenteous grain To errour mild, to vice alone severe,

No power can ravish from th' industrious swain ? Seek not to spread the law of love by fear.

When kiss, with pious love, the sacred earth The priest who plagues the world can never mend : That gave a Burleigh or a Russell birth? No foe to man was e'er to God a friend.

When, in the shade of laws, that long have stool, Let reason and let virtue faith maintain ;

Propt by their care, or strengthen’d by their blood, All force but theirs is impious, weak, and vain. | Of fearless independence wisely vain, Me other cares in other climes engage,

The proudest slave of Bourbon's race disdain ? Cares that become my birth, and suit my age;

Yet, oh! what doubt, what sad presaging voice, In various knowledge to improve my youth,

Whispers within, and bids me not rejoice; And conquer prejudice, worst foe to truth; Bids me contemplate every state around, By foreign arts domestic faults to mend,

From sultry Spain to Norway's icy bound; Enlarge my notions, and my views extend ; Bids their lost rights, their ruin'd glory see: The useful science of the world to know,

And tells me, “ These, like England, once were Which books can never teach, or pedants show.

A nation here I pity and admire,
Whom noblest sentiments of glory fire,
Yet taught, by custom's force and bigot fear,
To serve with pride, and boast the yoke they bear :

Whose nobles, born to cringe and to command,
(In courts a mean, in camps a generous band,)

WHEN Delia on the plain appears, From each low tool of power, content receive

Aw'd by a thousand tender fears, Those laws, their dreaded arms to Europe give.

I would approach, but dare not move : Whose people (vain in want, in bondage blest;

Tell me, my heart, if this be love ? Though plunder'd, gay; industrious, though opprest)

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear With happy follies rise above their fate,

No other voice but hers can hear, The jest and envy of each wiser state.

No other wit but hers approve :
Yet here the Muses deign'd awhile to sport

Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
In the short sunshine of a favouring court :
Here Boileau, strong in sense and sharp in wit, If she some other youth commend,
Who, from the ancients, like the ancients writ,

Though I was once his fondest friend,
Permission gain'd inferior vice to blame,

His instant enemy I prove :
By flattering incense to his master's fame.

Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Here Moliere, first of comic wits, excell'd
Whate'er Athenian theatres beheld;

When she is absent, I do more
By keen, yet decent, satire skill'd to please,

Delight in all that pleas'd before, With morals mirth uniting, strength with ease.

The clearest spring, or shadiest grove :
Now, charm'd, I hear the bold Corneille inspire

Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Heroic thoughts, with Shakspeare's force and fire!
Now sweet Racine, with milder influence, move When, fond of power, of beauty vain,
The soften'd heart to pity and to love.

Her nets she spread for every swain,
With mingled pain and pleasure, I survey

I strove to hate, but vainly strove :
The pompous works of arbitrary sway;

Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Proud palaces, that drain'd the subjects' store,
Rais'd on the ruins of th' opprest and poor ;

* The victories of Louis the Fourteenth, painted

in the galleries of Versailles. • Bishop Hough.

+ Chantilly.

St. Cloud.

| I now may give my burden'd heart relief, SONG,

And pour forth all my stores of grief;

Of grief surpassing every other woe,
The heavy hours are almost past

Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
That part my love and me:

Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
My longing eyes may hope at last

Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Their only wish to see.

Our gross desires, inelegant and low.
But how, my Delia, will you meet

Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
The man you've lost so long ?

Ye high o'ershadowing hills,
Will love in all your pulses beat,

Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green,
And tremble on your tongue ?

Oft have you my Lucy seen !

But never shall you now behold her more:
Will you in every look declare

Nor will she now with fond delight
Your heart is still the same;

And taste refin'd your rural charms explore.
And heal each idly-anxious care

Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night, Our fears in absence frame ?

Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine

Reason's pure light and Virtue's spark divine. Thus, Delia, thus I paint the scene, When shortly we shall meet ;

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice And try what yet remains between

To hear her heavenly voice;
Of loitering time to cheat.

For her despising, when she deign'd to sing,

The sweetest songsters of the spring : But, if the dream that soothes my mind

The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more ; Shall false and groundless prove;

The nightingale was mute,
If I am doom'd at length to find

And every shepherd's flute
You have forgot to love :

Was cast in silent scorn away,

While all attended to her sweeter lay. All I of Venus ask, is this ;

Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song, No more to let us join :

And thou, melodious Philomel,
But grant me here the flattering bliss,

Again thy plaintive story tell ;
To die, and think you mine.

For Death has stopt that tuneful tongue,
Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel.

In vain I look around

O'er all the well-known ground,

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry;
SAY, Myra, why is gentle love

Where oft we us'd to walk,
A stranger to that mind,

Where oft in tender talk
Which pity and esteem can move,

We saw the summer Sun go down the sky;
Which can be just and kind?

Nor by yon fountain's side,

Nor where its waters glide
Is it, because you fear to share

Along the valley, can she now be found :
The ills that love molest;

In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound
The jealous doubt, the tender care,

No more my mournful eye
That rack the amorous breast ?

Can aught of her espy,

But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.
Alas! by some degree of woe
We every bliss must gain :

O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast ?
The heart can ne'er a transport know,

Your bright inhabitant is lost.
That never feels a pain.

You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts
Where female vanity might wish to shine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.

Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye:

To your sequester'd dales
THE FIRST LADY LYTTELTON. 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, Ipse cavà solans ægrum testudine amorem, And banish'd every passion from her breast, Te dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum, | But those, the gentlest and the best, Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.

Whose holy flames with energy divine

The virtuous heart enliven and improve, Ar length escap'd from every human eye,

The conjugal and the maternal love. From every duty, every care, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns Beneath the gloor of this embowering shade,

By your delighted mother's side, This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,

Who now your infant steps shall guide ?

Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care ! At least, ye Nine, her spotless name
To every virtue would have form'd your youth, 'Tis yours from death to save,
And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of And in the temple of immortal Fame

With golden characters her worth engrave,
O loss beyond repair!

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;
Now she, alas! is gone,

O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
From folly and from vice their helpless age to save ? A more impassion'd tear, a more pathetic lay.

Where were ye, Muses, when relentless Fate
From these fond arms your fair disciple tore;

From these fond arms, that vainly strove
With hapless ineffectual love
To guard her bosom from the mortal blow?
Could not your favouring power, Aonian

Could not, alas! your power prolong her date,

For whom so oft in these inspiring shades, Or under Camden's moss-clad mountains hoar,

You open'd all your sacred store,

Whate'er your ancient sages taught, * Your ancient bards sublimely thought, And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit


Tell how each beauty of her mind and face Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar grace!

How eloquent in every look
Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly spoke!

Tell how her manners, by the world refin'd,
Left all the taint of modish vice behind,
And made each charm of polish'd courts agree
With candid Truth's simplicity,
And uncorrupted Innocence !
Tell how to more than manly sense

She join'd the softening influence

Of more than female tenderness :
How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and joy,
Which oft the care of others' good destroy,

Her kindly-melting heart,
To every want and every woe,
To guilt itself when in distress,

The balm of pity would impart,
And all relief that bounty could bestow!
Ev'n for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life

Beneath the bloody knife,

Her gentle tears would fall, Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to all.

Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain,
Nor in the Thespian valleys did you play ;

Nor then on Mincio's bank **

Beset with osiers dank,
Nor where Clitumnus + rolls his gentle stream,
Nor where through hanging woods,
Steep Anio pours his floods,
Nor yet where Meles S or Ilissus || stray.

Ill does it now beseem,

That, of your guardian care bereft, To dire disease and death your darling should be left.

Now what avails it that in early bloom,

When light fantastic toys
Are all her sex's joys,

[Rome; With you she scarch'd the wit of Greece and

And all that in her latter days

To emulate her ancient praise
Italia's happy genius could produce;
Or what the Gallic fire

Bright sparkling could inspire,
By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd;
Or what in Britain's isle,

Most favour'd with your smile,
The powers of Reason and of Fancy join'd
To full perfection have conspir'd to raise ?

Ah! what is now the use
Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind,
To black Oblivion's gloom for ever now consign'd.

• The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of Virgil.

+ The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of Propertius.

† The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where Horace had a villa.

$ The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, supposed to be born on its banks, is called Melisigenes.

The Ilissus is a river at Athens,

· Not only good and kind,
But strong and elevated was her mind :

A spirit that with noble pride
Could look superior down

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 ;
That, injur'd or offended, never tried
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 land,
And sweet Benevolence's mild command,
And bashful Modesty, before it cast.
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That nor too little nor too much believ'd,
That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear,
And without weakness knew to be sincere.
Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest days,
Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise,

In life's and glory's freshest bloom, tomb Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the

So, where the silent streams of Liris glide, - In the soft bosom of Campania's vale,

When now the wintry tempests all are fled, And genial Summer breathes her gentle gale, The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head: From every branch the balmy flowerets rise, On every bough the golden fruits are seen;

With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies, I To bear the weight of this oppressive woe.
The wood-nymphs tend, and th' Idalian queen. Alas! each friend of mine,
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride, My dear departed love, so inuch was thine,
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows,

That none has any comfort to bestow.
Cold with perpetual snows:

(dies. My books, the best relief The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and In every other grief,

Are now with your idea sadden'd all : Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bowers,

Each favourite author we together read With never-fading myrtles twin'd,

My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy And fragrant with ambrosial flowers,

dead. Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd; Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre,

We were the happiest pair of human kind : Tun'd by thy skilful hand,

The rolling year its varying course perform'd, . To the soft notes of elegant desire,

And back return'd again;
With which o'er many a land

Another and another smiling came,
Was spread the fame of thy disastrous love;

And saw our happiness unchang'd remain:
To me resign the vocal shell,

Still in her golden chain
And teach my sorrows to relate

Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind :
Their melancholy tale so well,

Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. As may ev'n things inanimate,

O fatal, fatal stroke, Rough mountain oaks, and desert rocks, to pity move. That all this pleasing fabric Love had rais'd

Of rare felicity, What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine? On which ev'n wanton Vice with envy gaz'd, To thee thy mistress in the blissful band

And every scheme of bliss our hearts had form’d, Of Hymen never gave her hand;

With soothing hope, for many a future day, The joys of wedded love were never thine:

In one sad moment broke ! -
In thy domestic care

Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay;
She never bore a share,

Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign,
Nor with endearing art

Or against his supreme decree
Would heal thy wounded heart

With impious grief complain.
Of every secret grief that fester’d there :

That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, Nor did her fond affection on the bed | Was his most righteous will — and be that will Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head

obey'd. Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain, And charm away the sense of pain :

Would thy fond love his grace to her control, Nor did she crown your mutual flame

And in these low abodes of sin and pain With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name. Her pure exalted soul

Unjustly for thy partial good detain ? O best of wives! O dearer far to me

No – rather strive thy grovelling mind to raise
Than when thy virgin charms

Up to that unclouded blaze,
Were yielded to my arms,

That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
How can my soul endure the loss of thee ?

In which enthron'd she now with pity sees How in the world, to me a desert grown,

How frail, how insecure, how slight,
Abandon’d and alone,

Is every mortal bliss;
Without my sweet companion can I live?

Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees
Without thy lovely smile,

Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state, The dear reward of every virtuous toil,

Whose fleeting joys so soon must end, What pleasures now can pallid Ambition give ? It does not to its sovereign good ascend.

Ev'n the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise, Rise then, my soul, with hope elate, Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts

And seek those regions of serene delight, could raise.

Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate

No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss. For my distracted mind

There death himself thy Lucy shall restore, What succour can I find ?

There yield up all his power ne'er to divide you more. On whom for consolation shall I call ?

Support me, every friend ;
Your kind assistance lend,

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