Around her haggard eye-balls roll; The artful, unsuspected sprite, Her troops advance with silent tread, Or shoot the wing'd malignant lie, So prowling wolves, when darkness reigns, The savage gluts his fierce desires, Slander smil'd horribly, to view Is it a breach of friendship's law, To say what female friends I saw ? Slander assumes the idol's part, And claims the tribute of the heart: The best, in some unguarded hour, Ilave bow'd the knee, and own'd her pow'r. Then let the poet not reveal What candour wishes to conceal. If I beheld some faulty fair, Much worse delinquents crowded there: Grave physic, and loquacious law; Courtiers, like summer flies, abound; And hungry poets swarm around. But now my partial story ends, And makes my females full amends. If Albion's isle such dreams fulfils, "Tis Albion's isle which cures these ills, Fertile of ev'ry worth and grace Which warm the heart and flush the face, Fancy disclos'd a smiling train Of British nymphs that tripp'd the plain. A fair and smiling virgin she! With ev'ry charm that shines in thee. And anxious for the simp'ring maid. When Slander sicken'd at the sight, BY HAMMOND. To his Friend, written under the Confinement of a long Indisposition. WHILE calm you sit beneath your secret shade, And lose in pleasing thought the summer-day, Or tempt the wish of some unpractis'd maid, Whose heart at once inclines and fears to stray: The sprightly vigour of my youth is fled, No virgin's easy faith I e'er betray'd, My tongue ne'er boasted of a feign'd embrace: No poisons in the cup have I convey'd, Nor veil'd destruction with a friendly face: No secret horrors gnaw this quiet breast, With curses loud-but oft have pray'd in vain. No stealth of time has thinn'd my flowing hair, Ere autumn yet the ripen'd fruit demand? Ye gods, whoe'er in gloomy shades below, Now slowly tread your melancholy round; Now wandering view the paleful rivers flow, And musing hearken to their solemn sound: Oh, let me still enjoy the cheerful day, And tell how much we lov'd, ere I grew old. But you who now, with festive garlands crown'd, In chace of pleasure the gay moments spend, By quick enjoyment heal love's pleasing wound, And grieve for nothing but your absent friend. |