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So, though I 'm tofs'd by giddy Fortune's hand,
Ev'n to the confines of my native land;
Where I can hear the stormy ocean roar,
And break its waves upon the foaming Thore:
Though from my Delia banish'd, all that 's dear,
That 's good, or beautiful, or charming here:
Yet flattering hopes encourage me to live,
And tell me Fate will kinder minutes give;
That the dark treasury of times contains
A glorious day, will finish all my pains :
And, while I contemplate on joys to come,
My griefs are filent, and my forrows dumb.
Believe me, nymph, believe me, charming fair,
(When truth's conspicuous, we need not swear;
Oaths will suppose a diffidence in you,
That I am falfe, my flame fictitious too)
Were I condemn'd by Fate's imperial power,
Ne'er to return to your embraces more,
I'd scorn whate'er the busy world could give;
”Twould be the worst of miseries to live:
For all my wishes and desires pursue,
All I admire, or covet here, is you.
Were I poffess'd of your surprizing charms,
And lodgʻd again within my Delia's arms ;
Then would my joys ascend to that degree,
Could angels envy, they would envy me.
Oft, as I wander in a filent shade,
When bold vexations would my soul invade,
I banish the rough thought, and none pursue,
But what inclines my willing mind to you.
The Coft reflections on your sacred love,
Like sovereign antidotes, all cares remove;
Composing every faculty to reft,
They leave a grateful flavour in my breast.
Retir'd sometimes into a lonely grove,
I think o'er all the stories of our love.
What mighty pleasure have I oft pofleft,
When, in a masculine embrace, I prest
The lovely Delia to my heaving breaft!
Then I remember, and with vast delight,
The kind expressions of the parting night:
Methought the sun too quick return'd again,
And day seem'd ne'er impertinent till then.
Strong and contracted was our eager bliss ;
An age of pleasure in each generous kiss :
Years of delight in moments we compriz'd;
And heaven itself was there epitomiz'd.
But, when the glories of the eastern light
O'erflow'd the twinkling tapers of the night;
Farewell, my Delia, O farewell! said I,
The utmost period of my time is nigh:
Too cruel Fate forbids my longer stay,
And wretched Strephon is compell'd away.
But, though I must my native plains forego,
Forsake these fields, forsake my Delia too;
No change of fortune shall for ever move
The settled base of my immortal love.
And must my Strephon, must my faithful swain,
Be forc'd, you cry'd, to a remoter plain!
The darling of my soul fo foon remov'd!
The only valu'd, and the best belov'd!
Though other swains to me themselves address'd,
Strephon was still distinguish'd from the rest :
Flat and infipid all their courtship seem'd;
Little themselves, their pasions less, esteem'd:
For my aversion with their flames increas'd,
And none but Strephon partial Delia pleas'd.
Though I'm depriv'd of my kind shepherd's sight,
Joy of the day, and blessing of the night ;
Yet will you, Strephon, will you love me ftill?
However, Aatter me and say you will.
For, should you entertain a rival love;
Should you unkind to me, or faithless prove;
No mortal e'er could half so wretched be:
For sure no mortal ever lov'd like me.
Your beauty, nymph, said I, my faith secures ;
Those you once conquer, must be always yours:
For, hearts subdued by your victorious eyes,
No force can storm, no stratagem surprize ;
Nor can I of captivity complain,
While lovely Delia holds the glorious chain.
The Cyprian queen, in young Adonis' arms,
Might fear, at least, he would despise her charms;
But I can never such a monster prove,
To fight the bleflings of my Delia's love.
Would those who at celestial tables fit,
Bleft with immortal wine, immortal wit;
Choose to descend to some inferior board,
Which nought but fcum and nonsense can afford ?
Nor can I e'er to those gay nymphs address,
Whose pride is greater, and whose charms are less :
Their tinsel bcauty may, perhaps, subdue
A gaudy coxcomb, or a fulsome beau ;
But seem at best indifferent to me,
Who none but you with admiration fee.
Now, would the rolling orbs obey my will,
I'd make the sun a second time staad ftill,
And to the lower world their light repay,
When conquering Joshua robb'd them of a day:
Though our two souls would different passions prove;
His was a thirr of glory, mine of love.
It will not be; the sun makes hate to rise,
And take possession of the eastern skies;
Yet one more kiss, though millions are too few;
And, Delia, fujce we must, must part, adieu.
As Adam, by an injur'd Maker driven
From Eden's groves, the vicinage of Heaven ;
Compellid to wander, and oblig'd to bear
The harsh imprellions of a ruder air;
With mighty forrow, and with weeping eyes,
Look'd back, and mourn'd the loss of paradise:
With a concern like his I did review
My native plains, my charming Delia too;
For I lefi paradise in leaving you.
If, as I walk, a pleasant shade I find,
It brings your fair idea to r.y mind :
Such was the happy place, I, fighing, say,
Where I and Delia, lovely Delia, lay;
When firit i did my tender thought: impart,
And made : grateful prefent of iny heart.
Or, if my friend, in his apartment, shews
Some piece of Van Dyck's, or of Angelo's,
In which the artist has, with wondrous care,
Defcrib'd the face of one exceeding fair ;
Though, at first ligle, it may my passion raise,
And every feature i admire and praile;
Yet still, methinks, upon a second view,
'Tis not so beautiful, fo fuir as you.
If I converse with those whom molt admit
To have a ready, gay, vivacious, wit;
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They want some amiable, moving grace,
COSMILIA. Some turn of fancy that my Delia has :
Since then we have no trophies to beltos, For ten good thoughts amongst the crowd they vent, No pompous things to make a glorious thew Methinks ten thousand are impertinent.
(For all the tribute a poor swain can bring, Let other shepherds, that are prone to range,
In rural numbers, is to mourn and fing) With each caprice, their giddy humours change : Let us, beneath the gloomy shade, rehearse They from variety less joys receive,
Cælestia's sacred name in no less sacred verse. Than you alone are capable to give.
STREPNON. Nor will I envy those ill-judging swains
Celeftia dead! Then 'tis in vain to live; (What they enjoy 's the refuse of the plains)
What's all the comfort that the plains can give; If, for my share of happiness below, Kind Heaven upon me Delia would bestow;
Since she, by whose bright influence alone
Our flocks increasid, and we rejoic'd, is gone; Whatever bleflings it can give beside,
Since the, who round such beams of goodness lead Let all mankind among themselves divide.
As gave new life to every swain, is dead?
A Pastoral Ejay on the Death of Queen Mary, In vain we with for the delightful spring;
What joys can flowery May or April bring,
When the, for whom the spacious plains were prezi
S gentle Strephon to his fold convey'd,
A wandering 12mb, which from the flocks had in vain did courtly Damon warm the earth,
With early flowers and chearful greens, is dead? stray'd,
To give to summer fruits a winter birth; Beneath a mournful cypress shade he found
In vain we autumn wait, which crowns the fields Cosmelia weeping on the dewy ground.
With wealthy crops, and various plenty yields; Amaz'd, with eager haste he ran to know The fatal cause of her intemperate woe;
Since that fair nymph, for whom the boundids fare
Of nature was preserv'd, is now no more.
And, clasping her to his impatient breast,
In these soft words his tender care exprest.
Farewell for ever then to all that 's gay:
You will forget to sing, and I to play, Why mourns my dear Cosmelia ? Why appears
No more with chearful songs, in cooling bovers, My life, my soul, diffolv'd in briny tears?
Shall we consume the pleasurable hours:
Has some fierce tiger thy lov'd heifer (lain,
All joys are banish'd, all delights are filed,
While I was wandering on the neighbouring plain?
Or, has some greedy wolf devour'd thy sheep?
Ne'er to return, now fair Cæleftia's dead.
What fad misfortune makes Cofmelia weep?
co $ MELIA. Speak that I may prevent thy grief's increase,
If e'er I fing, they shall be mournful lays
Partake thy sorrows, or restore thy peace.
Of great Cæleftia's name, Cælestia's praise:
How good she was, how generous, how wife!
How beautiful her shape, how bright her eyes! Do you not hear from far that mournful bell?
How charming all; how much she was ador'd, 'Tis for I cannot the sad tidings tell.
Alive; when dead, how much her loss depler'd! Oh, whither are my fainting spirits fled;
A noble cheme, and able to inspire 'Tis for Cælestia-Strephon, Oh-She's dead!
The humblest Muse with the sublimest fire. The brightest nymph, the princess of the plain,
And fince we do of such a princess fing,
By an untimely dart, untimely Nain!
Let ours afcend upon a stronger wing;
S T R EPŘON.
And, while we do the lofty numbers join,
Dead ! 'Tis impossible! She cannot die:
Her name will make the harmony divine. She 's too divine, too much a Deity :
Raise then thy tuneful voice; and be the song *Tis a false rumour some ill swains have spread, Sweet as her temper, as her virtue (trong. Who wish, perhaps, the good Cælestia dead.
STREDHON. c o s M'LIA.
When her great lord to foreign wars was gone Ah! No; the truth in every face appears ;
And left Cæleftia here to rule alone;
For every face you meet 's o'erflow'd with tears. With how serene a brow, how void of fear,
Trembling, and pale, I ran through all the plain, When storms arose, did the the vefsel steer!
From flock to flock, and ask'd of every swain, And when the raging of the waves did cease,
But each scarce lifting his dejected head,
How gentle was her (way in times of peace!
Cry'd, Oh, Cosmelia! Oh, Cælestia 's dead ? Justice and mercy did their beams unite,
And round her temples spread a glorious light;
So quick The eas'd the wrongs of every fwain, Something was meant by that ill-boding croak She hardly gave them leisure to complain : Of the prophetic raven from the oak,
Impatient to reward, but now to draw Which itrait by lightning was in shivers broke, Th' avenging sword of necessary law: But we our mischief feel, before we fee;
Like Heaven, she took no pleasure to destroy ; Seiz'd and o’erwhelm'd at once with misery.
With grief the punish'd, and the fay'd with joy.
Oh, godlike princess! Oh, thrice happy swains !
Whilft the presided o'er the fruitful plains !
Whilst the, for ever ravish'd from our eyes,
To mingle with the kindred of the skies,
Did for your peace her constant thoughts employ;
The nymph's good angel, and the thepherd's joy!
0 0 $ M LIA,
All that was noble beautify'd her mind;
There wisdom sat, with solid reason join'd:
There too did piety and greatness wait;
Meekness on grandeur, modesty on ftate:
Humble amidit the splendors of a throne;
Plac'd above all, and yet despising none.
And when a crown was forc'd on her by fate,
She with some pains submitted to be great.
Her pious soul with emulation strove
To gain the mighty Pan's important love :
To whose mysterious rites the always came,
With such an active, so intense a tlume;
The duties of religion seem'd to be
No more her care than her felicity.
In which, Elijah like, she pass'd the spheres;
Brought joy to Heaven, but left the world in tears.
STRE P HON.
Methinks I see her on the plains of light,
All glorious, all incomparably bright!
While the immortal minds around her gazo
On the excessive splendor of her rays;
And scarce believe a human soul could be
Endow'd with such stupendous majesty.
c o s M I LÀ.
Who can lament too much! O, who can moun
Enough o'er beautiful Cælestia's urn!
So great a loss as this deserves excess,
Of sorrows; all 's too little that is less.
But, to supply the universal woe,
Tears from all eyes, without cessation, flow :
All that have power to weep, or voice to groan,
With throbbing breasts, Cæleftia's fate bemoan ;
While marble rocks the common griefs partake,
And echo back those crics tliey cannot make.
Weep then (once fruitful yales) and spring with you!
Ye thirsty, barren mountains, weep with dew!
Let every flower on this extended plain
Not droop, but shrink into its womb again,
Ne'er to receive anew its yearly birth!
Let every thing that 's grateful leave the earth!
Let mournful cypress, with each noxious weed,
And baneful venoms, in their place succeed!
Ye purling, querulous brooks, o'ercharg'd with grief,
Hafte swiftly to the sea for more relief;
Then tiding back, each to his facred head,
Tell your attonith'd springs, Cæleftia's dead!
c o S M 2 LLA.
Well have you fung, in an exalted frzin,
The faireft nymph e'er grac'd the British plin.
Who knows but some officious angel may
Your grateful numbers to her ears convey!
That she may sinile upon us from above,
And biess our mournful plains with peace and love!
Virtue unmix'd, without the least allay,
Pure as the light of a celestial ray,
Commanded ail the motions of the soul
With such a soft, but absolute control,
That, as she knew what best great Pan would please,
She still perform'd it with the greatest case.
Him for her high exemplar the design'd,
Like him benevolent to all mankind.
Her foes the pity'd, not desir'd their blood;
And, to revenge their crimes, she did them good :
Nay, all affronts so unconcern'd the bore,
(Maugre hat violent temptation, Power)
As if she thought it vulgar to resent,
Or with'd forgiveness their worst punishment.
Next mighty Pan, was her illustrious lord,
His high vicegerent, sacredly ador’d:
Him with such piety and zeal the lov’d,
The noble passion every hour improv'd:
Till it ascended to that glorious height,
'Twas next (if only next) to infinite.
This made her fo cntire a duty pay,
She grew at last impatient to obey;
And met his wishes with as prompt a zeal
As an archangel his Creator's will.
C O S MELIA.
Mature from Heaven, the fatal mandate came,
With it a chariot of ethereal flame;
If in the body there was but one part
No choice had e'er fo happy an event, Subject to pain, and sensible of smart,
But he that made it did that choice repent. And but one passion could torment the mind;
So weak's our judgment, and so fhort's our light, That part, that passion, busy fate would find : We cannot level our own wishes right: But, since infirmities in both abound,
And if sometimes we make a wise advance, Since forrow both so many ways can wound:
T' ourselves we little owe, but much to chake. Tis not so great a wonder that we grieve
So that when Providence, for secret ends, Sometimes, as 'tis a miracle ve live.
Corroding cares, or sharp affiliation, fends;
We must conclude it best it should be so, The happiest man that ever breath'd on earth,
And not desponding or impatient grow. With all the glories of estate and birth,
For he that will his confidence remove Had yet some anxious care, to make him know, From boundless wisdom and eternal love, No grandeur was above the reach of woe.
To place it on himself, of human aid, To be from all things that disquiet, free,
Will meet those woes he labours to evade. Is not consistent with humanity.
But, in the keenest agonies of grief, Youth, wit, and beauty, are such charming things, Content 's a cordial that still gives relief: O'er which, if affluence spreads her gaudy wings, Heaven is not always angry when he strikes, We think the person who enjoys so much,
But most chastises those whom moft he likes; No care can move, and no affliction touch;
And, if with humble spirits they complain, Yet could we but some secret method find
Relieves the anguish, or rewards the pain.
To view the dark recesses of the mind,
We there might see the hidden seed of Arife,
And woes in embryo ripening into life:
How some fierce luft, or boisterous paffion, fills TO ANOTHER FRIEND UNDER
The labouring spirit with prolific ills;
Pride, envy, or revenge, distract the soul,
And all right reason’s godlike powers control;
INCE the first man by disobedience fell But if she must not be allow'd to sway,
An easy conquest to the powers of bell, 'Though all without appears serene and gay,
There's none in every stage of life can be A cankerous venom on the vitals preys,
From the insults of bold affliction free. And poisons all the comforts of his days.
If a short respite gives us some relief,
And interrupts the series of our grief, External pomp and visible success
So quick the pangs of misery return, Sometimes contribute to our happiness;
We joy by minutes, but by years we mourn. But that which makes it genuine, refin'd,
Reason refin'd, and to perfection brought, Is a good conscience and a foul resign'd. Then, to whatever end amiction 's sent,
By wife philosophy, and serious thought, 'To try our virtues, or for punishment,
Support the soul beneath the ponderous weight We bear it calmly, though a ponderous woe,
Of angry stars, and unpropitious fate;
Then is the time the should exert her power, And ftill adore the hand that gives the blow :
And make us practice what she taught before. For, in misfortunes this advantage lies;
For why are such voluminous authors read, They make us humble, and they make us wise;
The learned labours of the famous dead, And he that can acquire such virtues, gains
But to prepare the mind for its defence, An ample recompence for all his pains.
By sage results, and well-digested sense ; Too foft caresses of a prosperous fate
That, when the storm of misery appears, The pious fervours of the soul abate;
With all its real or fantastic fears, Tempt to luxurious ease our careless days,
We either may the rolling danger Ay, And gloomy yapour round the spirits raise.
Or stem the tide before it tweils too high. Thus lull'd into a feep, we dozing lie,
But though the theory of wisdom 's known And find our ruin in security;
With ease, what should, and what should not be done; Unless some forrow comes to our relief,
Yet all the labour in the practice lies, And breaks th' inchantment by a timely grief. To be, in more than words and notion, wile; But as we are allow'd, to chear our fight,
The sacred truth of found philosophy In blackest days, some glimmerings of light;
We study early, but we late apply. So, in the most dejected hours we may
When stubborn anguish seizes on the soul, The secret pleasure have to weep and pray:
Right reason would its haughty rage control; And thofe requeits the speedieft paffage find
But, if it may n't be suffer'd to endure, To Heaven, which flow from an afflicted mind; The pain is just, when we reject the cure. And while to him we open our distress,
For many men, close observation finds, Our pains grow lighter, and our forrows less,
Of copious learning, and exalted minds, The finest music of the grove we owe
Who tremble at the fight of daring woes, To mourning Philomel's harmonious woe;
And stoop ignobly to the vilest foes; And while her grief 's in charming notes expressid, As if they understood not how to be A thorny bramble pricks her tender breast;
Or wife, or brave, but in felicity; In warbling melody ihe spends the night,
And by some action, servile or unjust, And moves at once compassion and delight,
Lay all their former glories in the dust.
For in both these we may expect to find
A creeping spirit, or a haughty mind.
Who moves within the middle region, shares
The least disquiets, and the finallest cares.
Let her extraction with true lustre fhine;
If something brighter, not 100 bright for thine:
Her education liberal, not great ;
Neither inferior, nor above her state.
Let her have wit ; but let that wit be free
From affectation, pride, and pedantry:
For the effect of woman's wit is such,
Too little is as dangerous as too mnch.
But chicfly let her humour close with thine ;
Unless where yours does to a fault incline ;
The least dit parity in this destroys,
Like sulphurous blafts, the very buds of joys.
Her person amiable, Itraight and free
From natutal, or chance, deformity.
Let not her years exceed, if equal thine ;
For women past their vigor, foon decline :
Her fortune competent; and, if thy fight
Can reach fo far, take care 'tis gather'd right.
If thine's enough, then hers may be the less :
Do not aspire to riches in excess.
For that which makes our lives delightful prove,
Is a genteel sufficiency and love.
For wisdom forft the wretched mortal fies,
And leaves him naked to his enemies :
So that, when most his prudence Mould be shewn,
The most imprudent, giddy things are done.
For when the mind 's surrounded with distress,
Fear or inconftancy the judgment press,
And render it incapable to make
Wise resolutions, or good counsels take.
Yet there's a steadiness of foul and thought,
By reason bred, and by religion taught,
Which, like a rock amidst the stormy waves,
Unmov'd remains, and all affliction braves.
In sharp misfortunes, some will search too deep
What Heaven prohibits, and would secret keep :
But those events 'tis better not to know,
Which known, serve only to increase our woe.
Knowledge forbid ('tis dangerous to pursue)
With guilt begins, and ends with ruin too.
For, had our earliest parents been content
Not to know more than to be innocent,
Their ignorance of evil had preserv'd
Their joys entire ; for then they had not swerv'd.
But they imagin'd (their desires were such)
They knew too little, till they knew too much.
E'er since my folly most to wisdom rise ;
And few are, but by lad experience, wife.
Consider, Friend! who all your blessings gave,
What are recall'd again, and what you have ;
And do not murmur when you are bereft
Of little, if you have abundance left :
Consider too, how many thousands are
Under the worst of miseries, despair ;
And do n't repine at what you now endure;
Custom will give you eale, or time will cure :
Once more consider, that the present ill,
Though it be great, may yet be greater stilt;
And be not anxious; for, to undergo
One grief, is nothing to a numerous woe.
But since it is impossible to be
Human, and not expos'd to misery,
Bear it, my friend, as bravely as you can:
You are not more, and be not less than man!
Afflictions past can no existence find, But in the wild ideas of the mind : And why should we for these misfortunes mourn, Which have been suffer'd, and can ne'er return? Those that have weather'd a tempestuous night, And find a calm approaching with the light, Will not, unless their reason they disown, Still make those dangers present that are gone. What is behind the curtain none can see ; It may be joy: suppose it misery; 'Tis future ftill; and that which is not here, May never come, or we may never bear. 'Therefore the present ill alone we ought To view, in reason, with a troubled thought : But, if we may the sacred pages truft, He's always happy, that is always juft.
TO A PAINTER DRAWING
AINTER, the utmost of thy judgment thew;
Exceed ev'n Titian, and great Angelo :
With all the liveliness of thought express
The moving features of Dorinda's face.
Thou canst not Aatter, where such beauty dwells;
Her charms thy colours, and thy art, excells.
Others less fair, may from thy pencil have
Graces, which sparing Nature never gave:
But in Dorinda's aspect thou wilt see
Such as will pose thy famous art, and thee;
So great, so many in her face unite,
So well proportion'd, and so wondrous bright,
No human ikill can e’er express them all,
But must do wrong to th' fair originala
An angel's hand alone the pencil fits,
To mix the colours when an angel lits.
Thy picture may as like Dorinda be
As art of man can paint a deity;
And justly may perhaps, when the withdraws,
Excite our wonder, and deserve applause:
But when compar'd, you 'll be oblig'd to own,
No art can equal what's by Nature done.
Great LILY's noble hand, excell'd by few,
The picture fairer than the person drew:
He took the best that nature could impart,
And made it better by his powerful art.
But had he seen that bright, surprizing grace,
Which spreads itself o'er all Dorinda’s face,
Vain had been all the eflays of his skill;
She must have been confeit the faireít still.
Heaven in a landscape may be wondrous fine,
And look as bright as painted light can thine;
But still the real glories of the place
All art, by infinite degrees, surpass.