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O may no wight e'er pennyless come there, Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless
See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound,
Whose honour'd names th' inventive city own, Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises
Admir'd Salopia! that with venial pride
Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray ; Till reason's morn arise, and light them on their way.
DESCRIBING THE SORROW OF AN INGENUOUS MIND ON THE
MELANCHOLY EVENT OF A LICENTIOUS AMOUR,
Why mourns my friend? why weeps his downcast
eye? That eye where mirth, where fancy us'd to shine? Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh;
Spring ne'er enamellid fairer meads than thine.
Art thou not lodg'd in fortune's warm embrace ?
Wert thou not form'd by nature's partial care? Blest in thy song, and blest in every grace
That wins the friend, or that inchants the fair?
Damon, said he, thy partial praise restrain ;
Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore ; Alas! his very praise awakes my pain,
And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more.
For oh that nature on my birth had frown'd,
Or fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell ! Then had my bosom 'scap'd this fatal wound,
Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewell.
But led by Fortune's hand, her darling child,
My youth her vain licentious bliss admir'd; In Fortune's train the syren Flattery smild, And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspir'd.
Of folly studious, ev'n of vices vain,
Ah vices ! gilded by the rich and gay!
Nor dropt the chase till Jessy was ny prey.
Poor artless maid ! to stain thy spotless name,
Expence, and art, and toil, united strove; To lure a breast that felt the purest flame,
Sustain'd by virtue, but betray'd by love.
School'd in the science of love's mazy wiles,
I cloth'd each feature with affected scorn; I spoke of jealous doubts, and fickle smiles,
And, feigning, left her anxious and forlorn.
Then, while the fancy'd rage alarm'd her care,
Warm to deny, and zealous to disprove; I bade my words the wonted softness wear,
And seiz'd the minute of returning love.
To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the rest?
Will yet thy love a candid ear incline ! Assur'd that virtue, by misfortune prest,
Feels not the sharpness of a pang like mine.
Nine envious moons matur'd her growing shame :
Erewhile to flaunt it in the face of day; When, scorn'd of virtue, stigmatiz’d by fame,
Low at my feet desponding Jessy lay.
“ Henry,” she said, “ by thy dear form subdued,
See the sad relics of a nymph undone ! I find, I find this rising sob renew'd ;
I sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun.
Amid the dreary gloom of night I cry,
But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn !
Alas! no more that joyous morn appears
That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame; For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears,
And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame.
The vocal birds that raise their matin strain,
The sportive lambs, increase my pensive moan; All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain,
And talk of truth and innocence alone.
If through the garden's flowery tribes I stray,
Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure, Hope not to find delight in us, they say,
For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure.
Ye flowers that well reproach a nymph so frail ;
Say, could ye with my virgin fame compare? The brightest bud that scents the vernal gale
Was not so fragrant, and was not so fair.
Now the grave old alarm the gentler young ;
And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee; Trembles each lip, and faulters every tongue,
That bids the morn propitious smile on me.
sake I shun each human eye;
Raise me from earth; the pains of want remove,
And let me silent seek some friendly shore; There only, banish'd from the form I love,
My weeping virtue shall relapse no more.
Be but my friend; I ask no dearer name;
Be such the meed of some more artful fair; Nor could it heal my peace, or chase my shame,
That pity gave, what love refus'd to share.
Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread;
Nor hurl thy Jessy to the vulgar crew; Not such the parent's board at which I fed !
Not such the precepts from his lips I drew!
Haply, when age has silver'd o'er my hair,
learn to scorn so mean a spoil; Envy may slight a face no longer fair;
And pity welcome to my native soil."