I told thee, friend, (now bless the fhepherd's name,
From whofe dear care the kind occafion came,)
That I, even I, might happily receive

The facred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis give a
That I might fee the lovely awful swain,
Whofe holy crofier guides our willing plain;
Whofe pleafing power and ruling goodness keep
Our fouls with equal care as we our sheep;
Whose praise excites each lyre, employs each tongue :
Whilft only he who caus'd, diflikes the fong.
To this great, humble, parting man I gain'd
Accefs, and happy for an hour I reign'd;
Happy as new-form'd man in paradise,
Ere fin debauch'd his inoffenfive blifs;
Happy as heroes after battles won,

Prophets entranc'd, or monarchs on the throne;
But (oh, my friend!) thofe joys with Daphnis flew
To them these tributary tears are due.

DAMON.

Was he fo humble then? those joys fo vaft?
Ceafe to admire that both fo quickly past.
Too happy fhould we be, would fmiling fate
Render one bleffing durable and great;

But (oh the fad viciffitude!) how foon
Unwelcome night fucceeds the chearful noon;
And rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June!
Then grieve not, friend, like you, fince all mankind
A certain change of joy and forrow find.
Supprefs your figh, your down-caft eyelids raife,
Whom prefent you revere, him abfent praise.

Το

WH

To the COUNTESS of EXETER,
playing on the Lute.

HAT charms you have, from what high race
you fprung,

Have been the pleasing subjects of my forg:
Unskill'd and young, yet something still I writ,
Of Ca'ndifh' beauty join'd to Cecil's wit.

But when you please to shew the labouring Muse,

What greater theme your Mufick can produce;
My babbling praises I repeat no more,
But hear, rejoice, ftand filent, and adore.
The Perfians thus, first gazing on the fun,

Admir'd how high 'twas plac'd, how bright it fhone:

But, as his power was known, their thoughts were

And foon they worship'd, what at firft they prais'd.

Eliza's glory lives in Spenfer's fong;

And Cowley's verfe keeps fair Orinda young.
That as in birth, in beauty you excell,
The Muse might dictate, and the Poet tell :
Your art no other art can speak; and you,
To fhew how well you play, must play anew:
Your mufick's power your mufick must disclose;
For what light is, 'tis only light that shows.

Strange force of harmony, that thus controuls
Our thoughts, and turns and fanctifies our fouls:
While with its utmost art your fex could move
Our wonder only, or at beft our love:

You

You far above both these your God did place,

That your high power might worldly thoughts de-
ftroy;

That with your numbers you our zeal might raise,
And, like Himself, communicate your joy.
When to your native heaven you shall repair,
And with your presence crown the bleffings there,
Your lute may wind its ftrings but little higher,
To tune their notes to that immortal quire.
Your art is perfect here; your numbers do,
More than our books, make the rude Atheist know,
That there's a heaven by what he hears below.

As in fome piece, while Luke his skill expreft,
A cunning angel came, and drew the rest:
So when you play, some godhead does impart
Harmonious aid, divinity helps art;

Some cherub finishes what you begun,
And to a miracle improves a tune.

To burning Rome, when frantic Nero play'd,
Viewing that face, no more he had furvey'd

}

The raging flames; but, ftruck with ftrange furprize,
- Confefs'd them less than thofe of Anna's eyes:
But, had he heard thy lute, he foon had found
His rage eluded, and his crime aton'd :

Thine, like Amphion's hand, had wak'd the stone, -
And from deftruction call'd the rifing town :
Malice to mufick had been forc'd to yield;
Nor could he burn fo fast, as thou could'ft build.

Оп

On a Picture of SENECA dying in a Bath. By Jordain. At the Right Hon. the Earl of EXETER'S, at Burleigh-house.

W

HILE cruel Nero only drains

The moral Spaniard's ebbing veins,
By study worn, and flack with age,
How dull, how thoughtless, is his rage!
Heighten'd revenge would he have took,
He fhould have burnt his tutor's book;
And long have reign'd fupreme in vice:
One nobler wretch can only rife;
'Tis he whofe fury shall deface
The ftoic's image in this piece,
For while unhurt, divine Jordain,
Thy work and Seneca's remain,
He ftill has body, ftill has foul,
And lives and fpeaks, reftor'd and whole,

AN O D E.

I.

WHILE blooming youth and gay delight

Sit on thy rofy cheeks confest,

Thou haft, my dear, undoubted right

To triumph o'er this deftin'd breast. My reafon bends to what thy eyes ordain ; For I was born to love, and thou to reign.

II. But

II.

But would you meanly thus rely

On power, you know, I must obey?
Exert a legal tyranny ;

And do an ill, because you may?

Still must I thee, as atheists heaven, adore ;

Not fee thy mercy, and yet dread thy power?

III.

Take heed, my dear: youth flies apace ;
As well as Cupid, Time is blind :
Soon must those glories of thy face
The fate of vulgar beauty find :

The thousand Loves, that arm thy potent eye,
Muft drop their quivers, flag their wings, and die.
IV.

Then wilt thou figh, when in each frown

A hateful wrinkle more appears;

And putting peevish humours on,
Seems but the fad effect of years:

Kindnefs itself too weak a charm will prove,
To raise the feeble fires of aged love.

ར.

Forc'd compliments, and formal bows,
Will fhew thee just above neglect:
The heat with which thy lover glows,
Will fettle into cold refpect :

A talking dull platonic I fhall turn :
Learn to be civil, when I cease to burn.

VI. Then