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And whilst, reviv'd in youth, his wavy train
Floats in long spires, and burns along the plain,
He darts malignance from his scornful eye,
And the young flow'rs with livid hisses die.


Let my fad face your soft compassion move,
Convinc'd that Phaon would but cannot love:
To torture and distract my soul are join'd
Unfading youth and impotence of inind.
The white and red that Aatter on my skin
Hide hell; the grinning Furies howl within;
Pride, Envy, Rage, and Hate, inhabit there,
And the black child of Guilt, extreme Despair:
Nor of less terror to the perjur'd prove
The frowns of Venus than the bolts of Jove.

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When Orpheus in the woods began to play,
Sooth'd with his airs the leopards round him lay;
Their glaring eyes with lessen'd fury burn'd;
But when the lyre was mute, their rage return'd.
So would thy Muse and lute a while controul
My woes, and tune the discord of my soul,
In sweet suspense each savage thought restrain'd,
And then the love I never felt I feign'd.
O Sappho! now that Muse and lute employ
Invoke the golden goddess from the sky;
From the Leucadian rock ne'er hope redress;
In love Apollo boasts no fure fuccels:
Let him preside o'er oracles and arts ;
Venus alone has balm for bleeding hearts;
O! let the warbled hymn *) delight her ear;
Can she when Sappho fings, refuse to hear ?
Thrice let the warbled lymn repeat thy pain,
While flow'rs and burning gums perfume her fane:
And when, descending to the plaintive sound,
She comes confess’d with all her Graces round,
O, plead my cause! in that auspicious hour
Propitiate with thy vows the vengeful pow'r;

*) Alluding to her Ode to Venus.
Beisp. Samml. 6. P.

Fenton. Nor cease thy fuit, till with a smiling air

She cries: „I give thy Phaon to thy pray'r;
„And, from his crime atsolv'd with all his charms
„He long shall live, and die in Sappho's arms.“
Then swift, and gentle as her gentlest dove,
I'll seek thy breast, and equal all thy love: ·
Hymen shall clap his purple wings, and spread
Incessant raptures o'er the nuptial bed.
And while in pomp at Cytherea's fhrine
With choral song and dance our vows we join,
Her flaming altar with religious fear
I'll touch, and, proftrate on the marble, swear
That zeal and love for ever shall divide
My heart between the goddess and the bride.

Lord Lord H e r ve y.

gord hervey

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Bon ihm stehen vier Heroiden, oder Epistles in the Manner of Ovid, in Dodsley's Collection of Poems, Vol. IV. p.

Sie sind überschrieben: Monimia to Philocles; Flora, to Pompey; Arisbe to Marius Iunior, nach dem Fontenelle; und Roxana to Philocles, nach miontesquieu's Persischen Brie, en. Ich gebe hier das zweite Stück zur Probe. Poms pejus verliebte fich, in seiner frühen Jugend, in die flora, ein fchones, aber fehr buhlerisches Frauenzimmer, deren Bilóniß man, ihrer vorzüglichen Schönheit wegen, in dem römischen Tempel des Kastor und Pollur aufgestellt hatte. Geminius, ein Freund des pompejus, wurde in der Fors ge gleichfalls verliebt in fie; fie gab aber diesemn den Vorzug. pompejus trat seinem Freunde seine Geliebte ab; welches diere so sehr zu Herzen nahm, daß fie in eine gefährliche Krankheit fiel; und man muß annehmen, daß fie m&hrend derselben folgenden Brief an den Pompejus geschrieben has be, der gleichfalls eine Nachahmung des Fontenelle ift.

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Ere death these closing eyes for ever shade,
(That death thy cruelties have welcome made)
Receive, thou yet lov'd man! this one adieu,
This last farewell to happiness and you.
My eyes o’erflow with tears, my trembling hand
Can Icarce the letters form, or pen command:
The dancing paper swims before my fight,
And scarce myself can read the words I write.

Think you behold me in this loft estate,
And think yourself the autor of my fate :
How vast the change your Flora's now become
The gen’ral pity, not the boast of Rome.
This form, a pattern to the sculptor's art,
This face, the idol once of Pompey's heart,


Luib Servey, (Whose pi&ur'd beauties Rome thought fit to place

The sacred temples of her gods to grace)
Are charming now no more; the bloom is Aled,
The lillies languid, and the roles death.
Soon shall fome hand the glorious work deface,
Where Grecian pencils tell what Flora was :
No longer my reseinblance they impart,
They lost their likeness, when I lost thy heart.

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Oh! that those hours could take their turn

When Pompey, lab'ring with a jealous pain,
His Flora thus bespoke: ,,Say, my dear love!
,,Shall all these rivals unsuccesful prove?

In vain, for ever, shall the Roman youth
„Envy my happiness, and tempt thy truth?
„Shall neither tears nor pray’rs thy pity move?
„Ah! give not pity, 'tis aking to love.
Would Flora were not fair in such excess,
„That I might fear, tho' not adore her less.“

Fool that I was, I sought to eale that grief,
Nor knew indiff'rence follow'd the relief:
Experience taught the cruel truth too late,
I never dreaded, till I found

my fate.
'Twas 'mine to ask if Pompey's self could hear,
Unmov'd, his rivals unsuccessful pray'r ;
To make thee swear he'd not thy pity move;
Alas! such pity is no kin to love.

'Twas thou thyself (ungrateful as thou art!) Bade me unbend the rigour of my heart: You chid my faith, reproach'd my being true, (Unnatral thought!) and labour'd to subdue? The constancy my soul maintain'd for you; To other arms your


you condemn'd, Too cool a lover, and too warm a friend, j

How could'st thou thus my lavish heart abuse, To ask the only thing it could refule ?


Nor yet upbraid me, Pompey, what I say, Lord Server
For 'tis my inerit that I can't obey;
Yet this ailedg'd against me as a fault,
Thy rage fomented, and my ruin wrought.
Just gods! what tye, what conduct can prevail
O'er tickle inán, when truth like mine can fail ?

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Urge not, to gloss thy crime, the name of

We know, how far those facred laws extend;
Since other heroes have not blush'd to prove
How weak all passions when oppos'd to love:
Nor boast the virtuous conflict of thy heart,
When gen'rous pity took Geminius part;
?Tis all heroic fraud, and Roman art.
Such Aights of honour might amuse the crowd,
But by a mistress ne'er can be allow'd;
Keep for the senate, and the grave debate
That infamous hypocrisy of state;
There words are virtue, and your trade deceit.

No riddle is thy change, not hard t'explain;.
Flora was fond, and Pompey was a man:
No longer then a specious tale pretend,
Nor plead fi&titious merit to your friend :
By nature false, you follow'd her decree,
Nor gen'rous are to him, but falle to me.

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You say, you melted at Geminius' tears,
You say, you felt his agonizing cares:
Gross artifice, that this from him could move,
And not from Flora, whom you say you love:
You could not bear to hear your rival figh,
Yet bear unmoy'd to see your mistress die.
Inhuman hypocrite! not thus can he
My wrongs, and my distress, obdurate, fee.
He, who receiv'd condemns the gift you made,
And joins with me the giver upbraid,
Forgetting he's oblig’d, and mourning I'm betray'd.j
He loves too well that cruel gift to ufe,
Which Pompey lov'd too little to refuse:

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