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Our spirits fink away.

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

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!


TIS by comparison we know

On every object to bestow

Its proper fhare of praife:

Did each a like perfection bear,
What beauty, though divinely fair,
Could admiration raise?

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 rest 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 stone,
Compar'd with Silvia's mien!

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

OW in the cowflip's dewy cell

The fairies make their bed,

They hover round the cryftal well,
The turf in circles tread.

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

The twittering fwallow skims along
The azure liquid flood.

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The morning breeze wafts Flora's kifs

In fragrance to the fenfe;
The happy fhepherd feels the blifs,

And he takes no offence.

But not the linnet's sweetest fong
That ever fill'd the wood;
Or twittering fwallow 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.


They rife in vain, ah me! in vain

Are scatter'd in the wind;
Cynthia does not know the pain
That rankles in my mind.

If fleep perhaps my eye-lids clofe,
'Tis but to dream of you;
A while I cease to feel my woes,
Nay, think I'm happy too.

I think I prefs with kiffes pure,
Your lovely rofy lips;

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!
On thy poor Damon's heart :
Remember what I 've often said,
'Tis you can cure my fmart.



Written about the Time of his Execution, in


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.

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And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,

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Do thou a penfive ear incline;
For thou canft weep at every woe;
And pity every plaint-but mine.
Young Dawson was a gallant boy,
A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov'd again.

One tender maid, the lov'd him dear,
Of gentle blood the damfel came;
And faultlefs was her beauteous form,
And fpotlefs was her virgin fame.
But curfe on party's hateful strife,
That led the favour'd youth aftray;
The day the rebel clans appear'd,
O had he never feen that day!

Their colours and their fafh he wore,
And in the fatal drefs was found;
And now he must that death endure,

Which gives the brave the keeneft wound.
How pale was then his true-love's cheek,
When Jemmy's fentence reach'd her ear!

For never yet did Alpine fnows

So pale, or yet fo chill appear.

With faultering voice, fhe weeping said,
Oh Dawson, monarch of my heart;
Think not thy death shall end our loves,

For thou and I will never part.


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