DAMON.

Unkind! my falsehood to upbraid, When your own orders I obey'd; You bid me try, by this deceit, The notice of the world to cheat, And hide, beneath another name, The secret of our mutual flame.

DELIA.

Damon, your prudence I confess,
But let me wish it had been less;
Too well the lover's part you play'd,
With too much art your court you made;
Had it been only art, your eyes
Would not have join'd in the disguise.

DAMON.

Ah! cease thus idly to molest
With groundless fears thy virgin breast.
While thus at fancied wrongs you grieve,
To me a real pain you give.

DELIA.

Though well I might your truth distrust,
My foolish heart believes you just:
Reason this faith may disapprove ;
But I believe, because I love.

ODE.

IN IMITATION OF PASTOR FIDO.

(O primavera gioventu del anno.)
WRITTEN ABROAD IN 1729.

PARENT of blooming flowers and gay desires,
Youth of the tender year, delightful Spring,
At whose approach, inspir'd with equal fires,
The amorous nightingale and poet sing!

Again dost thou return, but not with thee Return the smiling hours I once possest; Blessings thou bring'st to others, but to me The sad remembrance that I once was blest.

Thy faded charms, which Winter snatch'd away,
Renew'd in all their former lustre shine;
But, ah! no more shall hapless I be gay,

Or know the vernal joys that have been mine.

Though linnets sing, though flowers adorn the green, Though on their wings soft Zephyrs fragrance bear: Harsh is the music, joyless is the scene,

The odour faint: for Delia is not there.

Cheerless and cold I feel the genial Sun,
From thee while absent I in exile rove;
Thy lovely presence, fairest light, alone
Can warm my heart to gladness and to love.

PARTS OF AN ELEGY OF TIBULLUS.
TRANSLATED, 1729-30.

(Divitias alius fulvo sibi congerat auro.)
LET others heap of wealth a shining store,
And, much possessing, labour still for more;
Let them, disquieted with dire alarms,
Aspire to win a dangerous fame in arms:
VOL XIV.

Me tranquil poverty shall lull to rest,
Humbly secure, and indolently blest;
Warm'd by the blaze of my own cheerful hearth,
I'll waste the wintry hours in social mirth;
In summer pleas'd attend to harvest toils,
In autumn press the vineyard's purple spoils,
And oft to Delia in my bosom bear

Some kid, or lamb, that wants its mother's care:
With her I'll celebrate each gladsome day,
When swains their sportive r'tes to Bacchus pay:
With her new milk on Pales' altar pour,
And deck with ripen'd fruits Pomona's bower.
At night, how soothing would it be to hear,
Safe in her arms, the tempest howling near;
Or, while the wintry clouds their deluge pour,
Slumber, assisted by the beating shower!
Ah! how much happier, than the fool who braves,
In search of wealth, the black tempestuous waves!
While I, contented with my little store,
In tedious voyage seek no distant shore;
But, idly loliing on some shady seat,
Near cooling fountains shun the dog-star's heat:
For what reward so rich could Fortune give,
That I by absence should my Delia grieve?
Let great Messalla shine in martial toils,
And grace his palace with triumphal spoils;
Me Beauty holds, in strong though gentle chains,
Far from tumultuous war and dusty plains.
With thee, my love, to pass my tranquil days,
How would I slight Ambition's painful praise!
How would I joy with thee, my love, to yoke
The ox, and feed my solitary flock!

On thy soft breast might I but lean my head,
How downy should I think the woodland bed!

The wretch, who sleeps not by his fair-one's

side,

And Parthian tyrants tremble at his name;
Though, bright in arms, while hosts around him bleed,
With martial pride he prest his foaming steed.
No pomps like these my humble vows require;
With thee I'll live, and in thy arms expire.
Thee may my closing eyes in death behold!
Thee may my faultering hand yet strive to hold!
Then o'er my breathiess clay thy tears will flow;
Then, Delia, then, thy heart will melt in woe,
Thy tears will flow, for gentle is thy mind,

Nor dost thou think it weakness to be kind.
But, ah! fair mourner, I conjure thee, space
Thy heaving breasts and loose dishevell'd hair:
Wound not thy form; lest on th' Elysian coast
Thy anguish should disturb my peaceful ghost.

But now nor death nor parting should employ
Our sprightly thoughts, or damp our bridal joy:
We'll five, my Delia; and from life remove
All care, all business, but delightful love.
Old age in vain those pleasures would retrieve
Which youth alone can taste, alone can give:
Then let us snatch the moment to be b'est,
This hour is Love's-be Fortune's all the rest.

Ah! should I lose thee, my too lovely maid,

Couldst thou forget thy heart was ever mine, Fear not thy letters should the change upbraid; My hand each dear memorial shall resign:

Not one kind word shall in my power remain,
A painful witness of reproach to thee;
And lest my heart should still their sense retain,
My heart shall break, to leave thee wholly free.

A PRAYER TO VENUS.

IN HER TEMPLE AT STOW.

TO THE SAME.

PAIR Venus, whose delightful shrine surveys
Its front reflected in the silver lake,
These humble offerings, which thy servant pays,
Fresh flowers, and myrtle wreaths, propitious take.

If less my love exceeds all other love,

Than Lucy's charms all other charms excel, Far from my breast each soothing hope remove, And there let sad Despair for ever dwell.

But if my soul is fill'd with her alone;

No other wish nor other object knows: Oh! make her, goddess, make her all my own, And give my trembling heart secure repose!

No watchful spies I ask, to guard her charms, No walls of brass, no steel-defended door: Place her but once within my circling arms, Love's surest fort, and I will doubt no more.

TO THE SAME.

YOUR shape, your lips, your eyes, are still the same,
Still the bright object of my constant flame;
But where is now the tender glance, that stole,
With gentle sweetness, my enchanted soul?
Kind fears, impatient wishes, soft desires,
Each melting charm that love alone inspires?
These, these are lost; and I behold no more
The maid my heart delighted to adore.
Yet, still unchang'd, still doating to excess,
I ought, but dare not try, to love you less;
Weakly I grieve, unpitied I complain ;
But not unpunish'd shall your change remain;
For you, cold maid, whom no complaints can move,
Were far more blest, when you like me could love.

TO THE SAME.

WHEN I think on your truth, I doubt you no more,
I blame all the fears I gave way to before:
I say to my heart, "Be at rest, and believe
That whom once she has chosen she never will
leave."

But, ah! when I think on each ravishing grace
That plays in the smiles of that heavenly face;
My heart beats again; I again apprehend
Some fortunate rival in every friend.

These painful suspicions you cannot remove, Since you neither can lessen your charms nor my love;

But doubts caus'd by passion you never can blame; For they are not ill founded, or you feel the same.

Is it glad Summer's balmy breath, that blows
From the fair jasmine and the blushing rose?
Her baling breath, and all her blooming store
Of rural bliss, was here before:

Oft have I met her on the verdant side
Of Norwood-hill, and in the yellow meads,
Where Pan the dancing Graces leads,
Array'd in all her flowery pride.

No sweeter fragrance now the gardens yield,
No brighter colours paint th' enamel'd field.

Is it to Love these new delights I owe?
Four times has the revolving Sun
His annual circle through the zodiac run;
Since all that Love's indulgent power
On favour'd mortals can bestow,
Was given to me in this auspicious bower.

Here first my Lucy, sweet in virgin charins,
Was yielded to my longing arms;
And round our nuptial bed,
Hovering with purple wings, th' Idalian boy
Shook from his radiant torch the blissful fires
Of innocent desires,

While Venus scatter'd myrtles o'er her head.

Whence then this strange increase of joy? He, only he, can tell, who, match'd like ine, (If such another happy man there be)

Has by his own experience tried How much the wife is dearer than the bride.

TO THE

MEMORY OF THE SAME LADY.

A MONODY. A. D. 1747.

Ipse cavà solans ægrum testudine amorem, Te dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum, Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.

Ar length escap'd from every human eye,
From every duty, every care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;
Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,
This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Of grief surpassing every other woe,
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires, inelegant and low.

Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'ershadowing hills,
Ye lawns gay-smiling with cterna! green,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!
But never shall you now behold her more:
Nor will she now with fond delight
And taste retin'd your rural charins explore.
Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine
Reason's pure light and Virtue's spark divine.

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice To hear her heavenly voice;

O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast? Your bright inhabitant is lost.

You she prefer'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

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,
And banish'd every passion from her breast,
But those, the gentlest and the best,
Whose holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal and the maternal love.

1

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.

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 hand,
And sweet Benevolence's mild command,
And bashful Modesty, before it east.

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,
Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the
tomb.

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 genal 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,
The wood-nymphs tend, and th' Idalian queen.
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows,
Cold with perpetual snows:

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

3 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.

d.es.

Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bowers,
With never-fading myrtles twin'd,
And fragrant with ambrosial flowers,
Where to the Laura thou again art join'd;
Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre,

Tua'd by thy skilful hand,

To the soft notes of elegant desire,
With which o'er many a land