Our fpirits fink away.
Enough, enough! dear nymph, give o'er;
And thou, great artist! urge no more
Thy unrefisted 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!
On every object to bestow
Its proper share of praise:
Did each a like perfection bear,
What beauty, though divinely fair,
Could admiration raife?
Amidft the lucid bands of night,
See! Hesperus, ferenely bright,
Adorns the distant skies :
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 strains,
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 bliss I 'd fly,
Would Silvia but the loss supply,
And take me to her arms.
The alabaster's wonderous white,
The marble's polish strikes my fight,
When Silvia is not feen:
But ah! how faint that white is grown,
How rough appears the polish'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 celestial red,
(Its purple lost, its lustre fled,)
Delights the sense 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 sweeteft in the wood;
The twittering swallow skims along
The azure liquid flood.
The morning breeze wafts Flora's kiss
In fragrance to the sense;
The happy shepherd feels the blifs,
And she 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 sweetest breath,
Or Flora's kiss, to me can bring
A remedy for death.
For death-what do I fay? Yes, death
Must furely end my days,
If cruel Cynthia flights my faith,
And will not hear my lays.
No more with festive garlands bound,
I at the wake shall be;
No more my feet shall press 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 press with kisses pure,
Your lovely rosy 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 faid,
'Tis you can cure my fmart.
JEMMY DAWSON. A BALLAD; Written about the Time of his Execution, in the Year 1745.
OME liften to my mournful tale,
Ye tender hearts and lovers dear;
Nor will you scorn to heave a figh,
Nor need you blush to shed a tear.
And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,
Do thou a pensive ear incline;
For thou canst 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, she lov'd him dear,
Of gentle blood the damfel came;
And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.
But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the favour'd youth aftray;
The day the rebel clans appear'd,
O had he never seen that day!
Their colours and their sash he wore,
And in the fatal dress 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 sentence reach'd her ear!
For never yet did Alpine fnows
So pale, or yet fo chill appear.
With faultering voice, she 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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