« AnteriorContinuar »
But no kind funs will bid me share,
Ah Spring! thou never canft repair
Written at Oxford, when young.
SHALL Love alone for ever claim
An undifputed sway?
Or has not Mufic equal charms,
To fill the breast with strange alarms,
The Thracian Bard, as Poets tell,
His arts, no more than Love's, we find
Drew brutes in crouds to hear.
Whatever favourite paffion reign'd,
In milder lays the Bard began;
And echoing charm'd the place:
See! fawning lions gaze around,
Affume a gentler grace.
When Cymon view'd the fair-one's charms,
Her ruby lips, and snowy arms,
And told her beauties o'er:
When love reform'd his awkward tone,
The Bard now tries a fprightlier found,
The foaring lark the note purfues;
An equal power of Love I 've seen
And chace his barking foe.
Sometimes has Love, with greater might,
When Silvia treads the fmiling plain,
When Handel's folemn accents roll,
In fweet confufion loft.
If the her melting glances dart,
Or he his dying airs impart,
Our spirits fink away.
Enough, enough! dear nymph, give o'er;
Thus love or found affects the mind:
For when Selinda's charms appear,
I burn, I faint, I die!
IS by comparison we know
On every object to bestow
Did each a like perfection bear,
Could admiration raife?
Amidst the lucid bands of night,
Whene'er the nightingale complains,
And praise the tuneful bird :
But vainly might she strain her throat,
Vainly exalt each swelling note,
Should Silvia's voice be heard.
When, on the violet's purple bed,
The fragrant pillow charms:
The alabafter's wonderous white,
But ah! how faint that white is grown,
The rofe, that o'er the Cyprian plains,
Plac'd near her cheek's celeftial red,
(Its purple loft, its luftre fled,)
Delights the fenfe no more.
On the approach of SPRING.
NOW in the cowflip's dewy cell
The fairies make their bed,
They hover round the crystal well,
The lovely linnet now her fong
The twittering fwallow fkims along
The morning breeze wafts Flora's kifs
In fragrance to the sense;
The happy fhepherd feels the blifs,
And fhe takes no offence.
But not the linnet's sweetest song
Skims fwiftly, harbinger of spring,
For death-what do I fay? Yes, death
If cruel Cynthia flights my faith,
No more with feftive garlands bound,
I at the wake shall be;
No more my feet fhall prefs the ground
No more my little flock I'll keep,
Ah! Cynthia, thy Damon's cries
Are heard at dead of night;
Like fmoke upon the fight.