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But no kind funs will bid me share,
Once more, his focial hour;

Ah Spring! thou never canft repair
This lofs, to Damon's bower.




Written at Oxford, when young.

SHALL Love alone for ever claim
An univerfal right to fame,

An undifputed sway?

Or has not Mufic equal charms,

To fill the breast with strange alarms,
And make the world obey?

The Thracian Bard, as Poets tell,
Could mitigate the Powers of hell;
Ev'n Pluto's nicer ear:

His arts, no more than Love's, we find
To deities or men confin'd,

Drew brutes in crouds to hear.

Whatever favourite paffion reign'd,
The Poet still his right maintain’d
O'er all that rang'd the plain
The fiercer tyrants could affwage,
Or fire the timorous into rage,
Whene'er he chang'd the strain.

In milder lays the Bard began;
Soft notes through every finger ran,


And echoing charm'd the place:

See! fawning lions gaze around,
And, taught to quit their favage found,

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,
And made each clownish gefture known,
It fhew'd but equal power.

The Bard now tries a fprightlier found,
When all the feather'd race around
Perceive the varied strains;

The foaring lark the note purfues;
The timorous dove around him cooes,
And Philomel complains.

An equal power of Love I 've seen
Incite the deer to fcour the green,

And chace his barking foe.

Sometimes has Love, with greater might,
To challenge-nay-fometimes-to fight
Provok'd th' enamour'd beau.

When Silvia treads the fmiling plain,
How glows the heart of every swain,
By pleafing tumults tost!

When Handel's folemn accents roll,
Each breaft is fir'd, each raptur'd foul

In fweet confufion loft.

If the her melting glances dart,

Or he his dying airs impart,

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Our spirits fink away.

Enough, enough! dear nymph, give o'er;
And thou, great artist! urge no more
Thy unrefifted fway.

Thus love or found affects the mind:
But when their various powers are join'd,
Fly, daring mortal, fly!

For when Selinda's charms appear,
And I her tuneful accents hear-

I burn, I faint, I die!



IS by comparison we know

On every object to bestow

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Did each a like perfection bear,
What beauty, though divinely fair,

Could admiration raife?

Amidst the lucid bands of night,
See! Hefperus, ferenely bright,
Adorns the diftant fkies:
But languishes amidst the blaze
Of sprightly Sol's meridian rays,·
Or Silvia's brighter eyes.

Whene'er the nightingale complains,
I like the melancholy ftrains,

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,
Supine I reft my weary head,

The fragrant pillow charms:
Yet foon fuch languid blifs I 'd fly,
Would Silvia but the lofs fupply,
And take me to her arms.

The alabafter's wonderous white,
The marble's polifh ftrikes my fight,
When Silvia is not feen:

But ah! how faint that white is grown,
How rough appears the polifh'd ftone,
Compar'd with Silvia's mien!

The rofe, that o'er the Cyprian plains,
With flowers enamel'd, blooming reigns,
With undifputed power,

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 turf in circles tread.

The lovely linnet now her fong
Tunes fweeteft in the wood;

The twittering fwallow fkims along
The azure liquid flood.

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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
That ever fill'd the wood;
Or twittering swallow that along
The azure liquid flood

Skims fwiftly, harbinger of spring,
Or morning's fweetest breath,
Or Flora's kifs, to me can bring
A remedy for death.

For death-what do I fay? Yes, death
Muft furely end my days,

If cruel Cynthia flights my faith,
And will not hear my lays.

No more with feftive garlands bound,

I at the wake shall be;

No more my feet fhall prefs the ground
In dance with wonted glee;

No more my little flock I'll keep,
To fome dark cave I'll fly;
I've nothing now to do but weep,
To mourn my fate, and figh.

Ah! Cynthia, thy Damon's cries

Are heard at dead of night;
But they, alas! are doom'd to rife

Like fmoke upon the fight.

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