For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
Tho' ne'er another trow me.

Graham of Gartmore

CXXXIV

TO A YOUNG LADY

S

WEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng: With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes; Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass, And Heaven reflected in her face.

W. Cowper

CXXXV

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

LEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile

so close thy laughing eyes,

Thy rosy lips still wear a smile

And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
And mantle o'er her neck of snow;
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish - and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breast:

- And now, how like a saint she sleeps! A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above controul
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
And may the secret of thy soul
Remain within its sanctuary!

CXXXVI

S. Rogers

F

OR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
An unrelenting foe to Love,
And when we meet a mutual heart
Come in between, and bid us part?

Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish and wish the soul away;
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of life is gone?

But busy, busy still art thou,
To bind the loveless joyless vow,
The heart from pleasure to delude,
To join the gentle to, the rude.

For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care;
All other blessings I resign,

Make but the dear Amanda mine.

F. Thomson

CXXXVII

ΤΗ

'HE merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrow'd name; Euphelia serves to grace my measure, But Cloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay

When Cloe noted her desire
That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
But with my numbers mix my sighs;
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.

Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:
I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around

Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.

CXXXVIII

M. Prior

WHEN

HEN lovely woman stoops to folly And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe 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.

O. Goldsmith

CXXXIX

E banks and braes o' bonnie Doon

can ye bloom sae fair!

How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care!

Thou 'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings upon the bough;

Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause Luve was true.

Thou 'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its love;
And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.

Α'

CXL

R. Burns

THE PROGRESS OF POESY

A Pindaric Ode

WAKE, Aeolian lyre, awake,

And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.

From Helicon's harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take :
The laughing flowers that round them blow
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of Music winds along
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,

Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;
Now rolling down the steep amain
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour :
The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.

O Sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares

And frantic Passions hear thy soft control.
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War

Has curb'd the fury of his car
And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand

Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey

Temper'd to thy warbled lay.
O'er Idalia's velvet-green

The rosy-crowned Loves are seen
On Cytherea's day,

With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
Frisking light in frolic measures;
Now pursuing, now retreating,

Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating

Glance their many-twinkling feet.