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The shepherd mark'd his treacherous art,
"The slave in private only bears
Your bondage, who his love conceals; But when his passion he declares,
You drag him at your chariot-wheels."
UNLESS with my Amanda blest,
In vain I twine the woodbine bower; Unless to deck her sweeter breast,
In vain I rear the breathing flower:
Awaken'd by the genial year,
In vain the birds around me sing; In vain the freshening fields appear: Without my love there is no Spring.
HARD is the fate of him who loves,
Oh, when she blesses next your shade;
Oh, when her footsteps next are seen
Ye gentle spirits of the vale,
To whom the tears of love are dear, From dying lilies waft a gale,
And sigh my sorrows in her ear.
Oh, tell her what she cannot blame,
Not her own guardian-angel eyes
With chaster tenderness his care; Not purer her own wishes rise,
Not holier her own sighs in prayer.
But if, at first, her virgin fear
Should start at Love's suspected name, With that of Friendship soothe her ear
True Love and Friendship are the same.
COME, gentle god of soft desire,
Come and possess my happy breast! Not, Fury-like, in flames and fire,
Or frantic Folly's wildness dress'd.
But come in Friendship's angel-guise:
More sweet emotions at thy heart.
Oh, come! with Goodness in thy train;
FOR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
Bid us sigh on from day to day,
But busy, busy still art thou,
For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
ODE TO SERAPHINA.
THE wanton's charms, however bright,
But that sweet ray your beauties dart,
Who pours a lovely, gentle light
A vicious love depraves the mind,
"Tis from low passions to escape, And woo bright Virtue's fairest shape; 'Tis ecstasy with wisdom join'd, And heav'n infus'd into the mind.
TELL me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled? To what delightful world above,
Appointed for the happy dead?
Or dost thou, free, at pleasure roam,
And sometimes share thy lover's woe, Where, void of thee, his cheerless home Can now, alas! no comfort know?
Oh! if thou hoverest round my walk,
While, under every well-known tree, I to thy fancied shadow talk,
And every tear is full of thee;
Should then the weary eye of grief,
Beside some sympathetic stream, In slumber find a short relief,
Oh, visit thou my soothing dream!