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Yet, your kind heavenly Father bends his eye
Observe the rising lily's snowy grace,
If, ceaseless, thus the fowls of heaven he feeds,
NE day the God of fond desire,
On mischief bent, to Damon said, Why not disclose your tender fire, · Not own it to the lovely maid?
The shepherd mark'd his treacherous art,
And, softly sighing, thus reply'd: 'Tis true you have subdu'd my heart,
But shall not triumph o'er my pride.
The slave in private only bears
Your bondage, who his love conceals; But when his passion he declares,
You drag him at your chariot-wheels.
L ARD is the fate of him who loves, 1. Yet dares not tell his trembling pain, But to the sympathetic groves,
But to the lonely listening plain.
Oh! when she blesses next your shade,
Oh! when her footsteps next are seen In flowery tracks along the mead,
In fresher mazes 'o'er the green, Vol. I.
Ye gentle spirits of the vale,
To whom the tears of love are dear, From dying lilies wafta gale,
And sigh my sorrows in her ear.
Oh tell her what she cannot blame,
Tho'fear my tongue must ever bind; Oh tell her that my virtuous flame
Is as her spotless foul refin’d.
Not her own guardian angel eyes
With chaster tenderness his care, Not purer her own wishes rise,
Not holier her own sighs in prayer.
But if, at first, her virgin fear
Should start at love's suspected name, With that of friendship footh her ear
True love and friendship are the same.
TINLESS with my Amanda blest,
In vain I twine the woodbine bower; Unless to deck her sweeter breast,
In vain I rear the breathing flower:
Awaken'd by the genial year,
In vain the birds around me fing; In vain the freshening fields appear:
Without my love there is no spring.
TOR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
An unrelenting foe to love,
Bid us sigh on from day to day,
But busy busy still art thou,
COME, gentle God of soft desire,
Come and possess my happy breast, Not fury-like in flames and fire,
Or frantic folly's wildness drest;
But come in friendship’s angel-guise:
Yet dearer thou than friendship art,
O come with goodness in thy train,
With peace and pleasure void of storm, And wouldst thou me for ever gain,
Put on Amanda's winning form.
Nightingale, best poet of the grove,
That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee, Bleft in the full possession of thy love:
O lend that strain, fweet Nightingale, to me!
'Tis mine, alas! to mourn my wretched fate;
I love a maid who all my bosom charms, Yet lose my days without this lovely mate;
Inhuman Fortune keeps her from my arms.
You, happy birds! by Nature's simple laws
Lead your soft lives, fustain'd by Nature's fare; You dwell wherever roving fancy draws,
And love and song is all your pleasing care:
But we, vain slaves of intrest and of pride,
Dare not be bleft, lest envious tongues should blame: And hence in vain I languish for my bride;
O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame.