Ye nymphs, bind up her silken hair;
Ye Zephyrs, fan her panting breast.

O haste away, fair maid! and bring
The Muse, the kindly friend to love;
To thee alone the Muse shall sing
And warble thro' the vocal groves.

LANSDOWNE.

DEAR is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and warbles there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound,
Or crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race at eve.

The

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent green-wood shade;
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale. *

Nor on beds of fading flowers
Shedding soon their gaudy pride,
Nor with swains in Syren bowers
Will true Pleasure long reside.

ROGERS.

On awful Virtue's hill sublime
Enthroned sits th' immortal fair;
Who wins her height must patient climb;
The steps are peril, toil, and care:
So from the first did Jove ordain

Eternal bliss for transient pain. †

DALTON.

*The supposed scene of this elegant piece is in Italy.

+ The sentiment in this song, which is introduced in the alteration of Comus for the stage, is borrowed from a noted passage in Hesiod.

JUNO'S SONG

IN THE JUDGEMENT OF PARIS.

LET ambition fire thy mind,

Thou wert born o'er men to reign; Not to follow flocks design'd;

Scorn thy crook, and leave the plain.

Crowns I'll throw beneath thy feet;

Thou on necks of kings shall tread; Joys in circles joys shall meet

Which way e'er thy fancy's led.

Let not toils of empire fright,
Toils of empire pleasures are;
Thou shalt only know delight,

All the joy, but not the care.

Shepherd, if thou 'It yield the prize,
For the blessings I bestow,
Joyful I'll ascend the skies,

Happy thou shalt reign below.

CONGREVE.

THE wretch condemn'd with life to part

Still, still on hope relies;

And every pang that rends the heart
Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Illumes and cheers the way,
And still as darker grows the night
Emits a brighter ray.

GOLDSMITH.

O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,

To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain:

Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe; And he who wants each other blessing

In thee must ever find a foe.

GOLDSMITH.

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can sooth her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom, is-to die.*

GOLDSMITH.

Lucy, I think not of thy beauty;
I praise not each peculiar grace:
To see thee in the path of duty,

And with that happy smiling face,
Conveys more pleasure to thy friend
any outward charm can lend.

Than

* For elegant simplicity of language, harmony of versification, and pointed neatness of composition, there are not, perhaps, to be found in the language two more finished stanzas than these, which are introduced in "The Vicar of Wakefield."

I see