Our spirits fink away. Enough, enough! dear nymph, give o'er; Thus love or found affects the mind: For when Selinda's charms appear, And I her tuneful accents hear I burn, I faint, I die! COMPARISON. TIS by comparison we know On every object to bestow Its proper fhare of praife: Did each a like perfection bear, Amidst the lucid bands of night, But languishes amidst the blaze And praise the tuneful bird : But vainly might she strain her throat, Vainly exalt each swelling note, Should Silvia's voice be heard. When 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. N ODE TO CYNTHIA, On the approach of SPRING. OW in the cowflip's dewy cell The fairies make their bed, They hover round the cryftal well, The lovely linnet now her fong The twittering fwallow skims along The morning breeze wafts Flora's kifs In fragrance to the fenfe; And he takes no offence. But not the linnet's sweetest fong Skims fwiftly, harbinger of spring, For death-what do I fay? Yes, death 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. They They rife in vain, ah me! in vain Are scatter'd in the wind; If fleep perhaps my eye-lids clofe, I think I prefs with kiffes pure, And you 're my bride, I think I'm fure, Till gold the mountain tips. When wak'd, aghaft I look around, And find my charmer flown ; Then bleeds afresh my galling wound, While I am left alone. Take pity then, O gentlest maid! JEMMY DAWSON. A BALLAD; Written about the Time of his Execution, in C the Year 1745. OME listen to my mournful tale, Ye tender hearts and lovers dear; Nor will you fcorn to heave a figh, Nor need you blush to shed a tear. And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid, Do thou a penfive ear incline; One tender maid, the lov'd him dear, Their colours and their fafh he wore, Which gives the brave the keeneft wound. For never yet did Alpine fnows So pale, or yet fo chill appear. With faultering voice, fhe weeping said, For thou and I will never part. Yet |