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She brought her cordials, made her tea
Of the best hyson or bohea;
To drive away each fretful thought,
She told what news the papers brought;
Whate'er in heaven or earth was done,
She told, but never named her son.
Ambrosia was her daily fare,
With nectar'd drams to doze despair;
She managed her with great address,
Made her play cards, backgammon, chess.
She got her out, and every morn
Around the skies would take a turn,
To try, while in their car they flew,
What air and exercise might do.
Whene'er her pain relax'd, she vow'd
No cure was like a brilliant crowd:
So, in the eve of each good day,
Coax'd her abroad to see the play.
Thus, like fine belles, she idly sought,
By vain delights to banish thought.

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Venus despatches a messenger to remonstrate with Cupid, and to bring him back to Wisdom.

Swift through the air Irene pass'd,
And finds deluded love at last,
Gazing on Folly's beauteous face,
Feasting his eyes on every grace,
And thunders in his ears a peal

Of bold plain truths, with honest zeal :
Tells him the dreadful news she brings,
And the plain consequence of things;
Show'd all his mother's letters to him,
And vow'd Moria would undo him;
Said twice as much as Venus bid her,
And begg'd of Cupid to consider,
How his vile pranks and broken vows
Would Jove's insulted vengeance rouse;
Then adding threats, vow'd o'er and o'er,
The Gods would be deceived no more:
In short, she made his conduct look
So black, like aspen leaves he shook.

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Till roused at last her deluged eyes,
Charm'd with a great design she tries:
Flush'd with the thought, she wings her flight
To the dun goddess of the Night:
She found her on a mountain's side,
Where rocks her palace portals hide;
Walls of thick mist its precincts close,
No groves, lodge, cawing rooks, or crows,
But solemn Silence, still as Death,
Lay slumbering on th' extended heath:
Old Nature built it under ground,
Shut from the day, remote from sound;
Its outstretch'd columns arch'd inclose
Vast voids devoted to repose,

Form'd of huge caverns so obscure,
As 'twere of light the sepulture.

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Warm'd with your sighs, bedew it round
His eye-lids, seal'd in trance profound,
And by loved Erebus I swear,

The God your chains shall raptured wear:
Haste, use it-leave me to my rest."
She sunk, with dozing fumes oppress'd.

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So quick as airy Fancy flies,
Or beamy light shoots round the skies,
To Cupid's couch she wings her way,
Where, sunk in sleep, the dreamer lay;

[* Erebus, the infernal deity, was married to Nox, the goddess, as all mythologists agree; and even Cicero tells us this is his 3d book of the Nature of the Gods. This marriage produced a crowd of horrid children, such as Deceit, Fear, Labour, Envy, and many others, among whom Folly is set down as one.]

Warm'd with her sighs, the oil, in rills,
Soft round his eye-lids she distils,
Then unperceived to bed she stole,
While joys enraptured swell'd her soul.
Wake, wretched Cupid, haste, arise,
Or never shall thy radiant eyes
Nature's fair face again survey,
Or the bright sun's delightful ray;
For by the magic arts of Night
Folly will rob thee of thy sight,
And by mad fondness, undesign'd,

Will make thee senseless, dark, and blind.
And now the virgin Light had rear'd
Her head, and o'er the mountains peer'd,
When Folly, glad her grand design
Was near the springing, like a mine,
Impatient for the great event
Of her dread mother's liniment,
Drew the bed-curtains, wild with joy,
To rouse the soul-subduing boy,
And cried, "Awake, my dear, the sun
Already has its course begun;

Whole nature smiles, while thus we use
The morn, fresh bathed in limpid dews."
Pleased he awakes; his ears rejoice
To hear her sweet bewitching voice,
And, fond, to see her turn'd his eyes,
But, starting, found, with deep surprise,
Though in their own warm melting rain
He bathed and rubb'd them long in vain:
Their powers of vision die away,
While dimm'd, nor conscious of the day;
Fruitless they roll their shining orbs,
Which the dark gloom of night absorbs.

"O Heaven!" he cries, "the Gods, I find, The cruel Gods, have struck me blind; Or rather Metis, in despite,

Has by some art destroy'd my sight.

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Thus the gay hours delightful fly,
Till Folly's own good hour draws nigh,
When, twinged and pain'd, her labour came,
She sends for many a Carian dame;
By great Lucina's help and theirs,
To ease the burthen which she bears.
Great was her danger; for the fright
She took when Cupid lost his sight,
And the dread horror of her crime,
Had made her come before her time:
Yet blest with what she thought a treasure,

A girl at last was born, call'd Pleasure,

Of a weak, sickly, tender make,
Tall, thin, and slender as a rake;

So slight, it scarce would handling bear,
Fainting in spite of Folly's care:
For, as the sensitive plant, it seem'd
To shrink at every touch, and scream'd
Like mandrakes, when their tender shoots
Are torn upward by the roots.

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Withal it had the loveliest face,

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With such enchanting mien and grace,
No infant destined for a toast
Could such a set of features boast.
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Could Venus see it, they believed

Her favour might be yet retrieved.

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Full of these views, their harness'd doves Bear them from Caria's fragrant groves, And though o'ertaken by the night, Safely near Paphos they alight;

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Love's cause already was come on,
And Metis had in form begun
A huge philippic on her son.
Alarm'd with this, in haste they dress'd,
And Venus on her snowy breast
The magic cestus secret placed,
And walk'd, with heavenly glory graced.
Love follow'd with his brilliant girl,
Trick'd out with jewels, lace, and pearl;
Within her fost'ring arms convey'd,
Pleasure her infant charms display'd;
When, all perfumed with civet, came
Where Jove in judgment sat supreme;
There they heard Metis just concluding
A long harangue of Love's eluding
The powers above, and all the vows
He swore, of making her his spouse.

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Wine cheers their hearts, yet, calm and cool,
Each mused how Jove the cause would rule;
And, when they took the cloth away,
Watch'd the great business of the day.
Straight Jove, all Heaven in silence hush'd,
His will pronouncing, laugh'd and blush'd;
And placing Folly at his side,
Decrees her Cupid's fittest bride;
He shows his reasons, (but too long
They would protract the faithful song,)
Then toasts her health; the nectar'd bowl
He gives her to enlarge her soul:

She drank so deep, an air divine

O'er all her features seem'd to shine.

"That draught," says Jove, (and, pleased, he

smiled,

Midst all his thunders, sweet and mild,)
"Has raised thee, fair Moria, high
As the bright daughters of the sky;
Thou'rt now immortal grown, and fit
Great Love's embraces to admit :
Together calm the frantic earth,
Allay men's woes, augment their mirth;
Sweeten their cares and let them see,
If they're unbless'd, 'tis not from me."
He joins their hands for endless ages,

And bids them scorn censorious sages.

"Let none," says Jove, "while thus they're tied, Sweet Folly and fond Love divide.

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Accursed be his atrocious crime,

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Who parts you through the rounds of time;

Apuleius represents Jupiter (in his 6th book) making Psyche immortal in this manner, by making her drink out of the bowl which he reached to her.

And let fair Pleasure always be
Beloved by men, by gods, and me.
Yet, prudent Metis, don't despair,
For thou art mine, by Styx I swear,*

My chosen wife, whose counsels still
Shall rule my heart and guide my will,
And with eternal charms control
The fond affections of my soul."

TWEEDSIDE.

WILLIAM CRAWFURD.†

[Born, 1700? Died, 1750?]

WHAT beauties does Flora disclose!
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed!
Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those,
Both nature and fancy exceed.
Nor daisy, nor sweet-blushing rose,

Not all the gay flowers of the fleld,
Not Tweed gliding gently through those,
Such beauty and pleasure does yield.

The warblers are heard in the grove,

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The black-bird, and sweet-cooing dove, With music enchant every bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead,

Let us see how the primroses spring; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather'd folks sing.

How does my love pass the long day?
Does Mary not tend a few sheep?
Do they never carelessly stray,

While happily she lies asleep?
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest;
Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the soft pains of my breast,
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.

"Tis she does the virgins excel,

No beauty with her may compare: Love's graces around her do dwell;

She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray, Oh! tell me at noon where they feed; Shall I seek them on smooth-winding Tay Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed.

THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. HEAR me, ye nymphs, and every swain, I'll tell how Peggy grieves me: Though, thus I languish, thus complain, Alas! she ne'er believes me. My vows and sighs, like silent air, Unheeded never move her; At the bonny bush aboon Traquair, 'Twas there I first did love her.

*The goddess Metis, or Wisdom, in Hesiod's Theogonia, is set down as one of the wives whom Jupiter married.Vide Nat. Com. 1, 2, p. 90, cap. 2.

[† A merchant in Glasgow, one of the sweetest of our lyrical writers, and one of the ingenious young gentlemen that assisted Allan Ramsay in his Tea Table Miscellany.

That day she smiled, and made me glad,
No maid seem'd ever kinder;

I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her.
I tried to soothe my amorous flame
In words that I thought tender;
If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame,
I meant not to offend her.

Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet, she shows disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonny bush bloom'd fair in May,
Its sweets I'll aye remember;
But now her frowns make it decay,
It fades as in December.

Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
Oh! make her partner in my pains,

Then let her smiles relieve me.
If not, my love will turn despair,
My passion no more tender,
I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair,
To lonely wilds I'll wander.

ON MRS. A. H., AT A CONCERT.
LOOK where my dear Hamilla smiles,
Hamilla! heavenly charmer;
See how with all their arts and wiles
The Loves and Graces arm her.
A blush dwells glowing on her cheeks,
Fair seats of youthful pleasures;
There love in smiling language speaks,
There spreads his rosy treasures.

O fairest maid, I own thy power,
I gaze, I sigh, and languish,
Yet ever, ever will adore,

And triumph in my anguish.
But ease, O charmer, ease my care,
And let my torments move thee;
As thou art fairest of the fair,
So I the dearest love thee.

He was alive in 1748, and certainly dead in 1758, having suffered for many years "the inost torturing pains of body with an unalterable cheerfulness of temper." It is said that he was drowned crossing over from France to Scot land, but this is very questionable.]

AARON HILL.

[Born, 1685. Died, 1750.]

Was born in 1685, and died in the very minute of the earthquake of 1750, of the shock of which, though speechless, he appeared to be sensible. His life was active, benevolent, and useful: he was the general friend of unfortunate genius, and his schemes for public utility were frustrated only

by the narrowness of his circumstances. Though his manners were unassuming, his personal dignity was such, that he made Pope fairly ashamed of the attempt to insult him, and obliged the satirist to apologize to him with a mean equivocation.

VERSES WRITTEN WHEN ALONE IN AN INN AT SOUTHAMPTON.

TWENTY lost years have stolen their hours away,
Since in this inn, even in this room, I lay:
How changed! what then was rapture, fire,
and air,

Seems now sad silence all and blank despair!
Is it that youth paints every view too bright,
And, life advancing, fancy fades her light?
Ah, no!-nor yet is day so far declined,
Nor can time's creeping coldness reach the mind.
"Tis that I miss the inspirer of that youth;
Her, whose soft smile was love, whose soul was
truth.

Her, from whose pain I never wish'd relief,
And for whose pleasure I could smile at grief.
Prospects that, view'd with her, inspired before,
Now seen without her can delight no more.
Death snatch'd my joys, by cutting off her share,
But left her griefs to multiply my care.

Pensive and cold this room in each changed
part

I view, and shock'd, from ev'ry object start: There hung the watch, that beating hours from day,

Told its sweet owner's lessening life away. There her dear diamond taught the sash my

name;

"Tis gone! frail image of love, life, and fame. That glass she dress'd at, keeps her form no

more;

Not one dear footstep tunes th' unconscious floor.
There sat she-yet those chairs no sense retain,
And busy recollection smarts in vain.

Sullen and dim, what faded scenes are here!
I wonder, and retract a starting tear,
Gaze in attentive doubt-with anguish swell,
And o'er and o'er on each weigh'd object dwell.
Then to the window rush, gay views invite,
And tempt idea to permit delight.
But unimpressive, all in sorrow drown'd,
One void forgetful desert glooms around.

O life!-deceitful lure of lost desires!
How short thy period, yet how fierce thy fires!
Scarce can a passion start (we change so fast)
Ere new lights strike us, and the old are past.
Schemes following schemes, so long life's taste
explore,

That ere we learn to live, we live no more.

Who then can think-yet sigh, to part with breath,

Or shun the healing hand of friendly death? Guilt, penitence, and wrongs, and pain, and strife,

Form the whole heap'd amount, thou flatterer, life!

Is it for this, that toss'd 'twixt hope and fear, Peace, by new shipwrecks, numbers each new

year?

Oh take me, death! indulge desired repose,
And draw thy silent curtain round my woes.

Yet hold-one tender pang revokes that pray'r,
Still there remains one claim to tax my care.
Gone though she is, she left her soul behind,
In four dear transcripts of her copied mind.
They chain me down to life, new task supply,
And leave me not at leisure yet to die!
Busied for them I yet forego release,
And teach my wearied heart to wait for peace.
But when their day breaks broad, I welcome
night,

Smile at discharge from care, and shut out light.

ALEXIS, OR POPE.

FROM A CAVEAT.*

TUNEFUL ALEXIS, on the Thames' fair side, The ladies' plaything, and the Muses' pride; With merit popular, with wit polite, Easy though vain; and elegant though light: Desiring and deserving others' praise, Poorly accepts a fame he ne'er repays; Unborn to cherish, sneakingly approves, And wants the soul to spread the worth he loves. This, to the juniors of his tribe, gave pain, For mean minds praise but to be praised again. Henceforth, renouncing an ungracious Baal, His altars smoke not, and their offerings fail: The heat his scorn had raised, his pride inflamed, Till what they worshipp'd first they next defamed.

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