When those bewitching eyes I view,
They look as they could pity too;
But when to her I make my moan,
She's harder than the hardest stone.

No longer will I waste my time,
And spend in vain my youthful prime,
To court a maid, whose chiefest joy
Is how to torture and destroy :
I won't be any longer blird,

For none are charming but the kind.

my

But, stay-behold the blooming fair!
Her graceful shape! her lovely air!
All resolves are flown away,
Like ghosts at the approaching day;
And as the sun the flower revives,
My passion in her presence thrives.

'Tis vain elsewhere to seek redress, For she, and only she, can bless : Ev'n while I to forget her try,

For her, and her alone, I die:

May Heav'n, that made her fair, dispose

Her breast to cure the lover's woes.

EDWARD LOVIBOND.

1775.

A country gentleman whose amusements in verse were collected after his death.

He was the Author of "The Tears of Old May Day" printed in No. 82 of the World, a poem which has been often praised.

On a very fine Lady.

FINE B- -R observes no other rules
Than those the coterie prize;
She thinks, whilst lords continue fools,
'Tis vulgar to be wise:

Thinks rudeness wit in noble dames,

Adultery, love polite;

That ducal stars shoot brighter flames
Than all the host of light.

Yet sages own that greatness throws
A grace on Spencer's charms;
On Hagley's verse, on Stanhope's prose,
And gilded Marlborough's arms.

For titles here their reverence ends;
In general wisdom thinks

The higher grandeur's scale ascends,
The lower nature's sinks.

On Rural Sports.

THE sun wakes jocund--- all of life, who breathe
In air, or earth, and lawn, and thicket rove,
Who swim the surface, or the deep beneath,
Swell the full chorus of delight and love.

But what are ye, who cheer the bay of hounds, Whose levelled thunder frightens morn's repose, Who drag the net, whose hook insidious wounds A writhing reptile, type of mightier woes?

I see ye come, and havoc loose the reins,

A general groan the general anguish speaks, The stately stag falls butchered on the plains,

The dew of death hangs clammy on his cheeks.

Ah! see the pheasant fluttering in the brake,
Green, azure, gold, but undistinguished gore!
Yet spare
the tenants of the silver lake!

I call in vain,-They gasp upon the shore.

A yet ignobler band is guarded round

With dogs of war-the spurning bull their prize; And now he bellows, humbled to the ground; And now they sprawl in howlings to the skies.

You too must feel their missile weapon's power, Whose clarion charms the midnight's sullen air; Thou the morn's harbinger, must mourn the hour *Vigil to fasts and penitence and prayer ;

Must fatal wars of human avarice wage,

For milder conflicts, love their palm design'd; Now sheath'd in steel, must rival reason's rage, Deal mutual death, and emulate mankind;

Are these your sovereign joys, creations lords?
Is death a banquet for a godlike soul?
Have rigid hearts no sympathising chords
For concord, order, for the harmonious whole?

* Shrove Tuesday.

Nor plead necessity, thou man of blood!

Heaven tempers power with mercy-Heaven

revere !

Yet slay the wolf for safety, lamb for food;
But shorten misery's pangs, and drop à tear!

АH! rather turn, and breathe this evening gale, Uninjur'd, and uninjuring Nature's peace. Come, draw best nectar from the foaming pail, Come, pen the fold, and count the flock's increase!

See pasturing heifers with the bull who wields Yet budding horns, and wounds alone the soil! Or see the panting spaniels try the fields.

While bursting coveys mock his wanton toil!

Now feel the steed with youth's elastic force Spontaneous bound, yet bear thy kind controul; Nor mangle all his sinews in the course,

And fainting, staggering, lash him to the goal!

Now sweetly pensive, bending o'er the stream, Mark the gay, floating myriads, nor molest Their sports, their slumbers, but inglorious dream Of evil fled and all creation blest.