Ev'n Spring difpleases, when the fhines not here;
But, blefs'd with her, 'tis Spring throughout the Year. Pope.
With thee converfing, I forget all Time,
All Seafons and their Change; all please alike:
Sweet is the Breath of Morn; her Rifing fweet,
With Charm of earliest Birds; pleasant the Sun,
When firft on this delightful Land he fpreads
His orient Beams on Herb, Tree, Fruit and Flow'r,
Glift'ring with Dew; fragrant the fertile Earth
After foft Show'rs; and fweet the Coming-on
Of grateful Ev'ning mild; the filent Night,
With this her folemn Bird; and this fair Moon;
And these the Gems of Heav'n, her starry Train:
But neither Breath of Morn, when the afcends
With Charm of earliest Birds; nor rifing Sun
On this delightful Land; nor Herb, Fruit, Flow'r,
Glift'ring with Dew; nor Fragrance after Show'rs;
Nor grateful Ev'ning mild, nor filent Night,
With this her folemn Bird; nor Walk by Moon;
Orglitt'ring Star-light, without thee is fweet. Milt. Par. Loft.
The Rofes hang their Heads, and pine;
And, 'till you come, in vain perfume the Air. Temp. Hor. Fair Galatea, with thy filver Feet,
O, whiter than the Swan, and more than Hybla fweet,
Tall as a Poplar, taper as the Bole,
Come, charm thy Shepherd, and restore
Come, when my lated Sleep at Night return,
And crown the filent Hours, and ftop the rofy Morn. Dryd.
What fhall I do? Oh, how alone am I?
I walk, methinks, as half of me were loft. Otw. C. Mar.
My Eyes are robb'd of what they love to fee;
My Ears, of the dear Words they wish to hear;
My longing Arms, of the Embrace they covet:
Forgive me, Heav'n, if, when I these enjoy,
So perfect is the Happiness I find,
That my Soul, fatisfy'd, feels no Ambition,
To change thefe humble Roofs, and fit above. Roch. Valent.
Oh! 'tis in vain to struggle with Defires,
Strong as my Love to thee: For, ev'ry Moment
I'm from thy Sight, the Heart within my Bofom
Moans like a tender Infant in its Cradle,
Whofe Nurfe had left it: Come, and with the Songs
Of gentle Love perfwade it to its Peace.
Moments to abfent Lovers tedious grow:
Tis not how Time, but how the Mind, does go. Sedl. Ant.
Fly fwift, ye Hours; ye fluggish Minutes fly;
Bring back my Love, or let her Lover die:
Make hafte, O Sun, and, to my Eyes, once more,
My Celia, brighter than thy felf, reftore:
In fpight of thee, 'tis Night when she's away;
Her Eyes alone can the glad Beams difplay,
That make my Sky look clear, and guide my Day:
O, when will the lift up her facred Light,
And chafe away the flying Shades of Night?
With her how faft the flowing Hours run on!
But, oh! how long they ftay when he is gone!
So flowly Time, when clog'd with Grief, does move;
So fwift, when borne upon the Wings of Love.
Fly fwift, ye Minutes, and contract the Space
Of Time, that holds me from her dear Embrace:
When I am there, I'll bid you kindly stay ;
I'll bid you reft, and never glide away. Oldh.
Move fwiftly, Sun, and fly a Lover's Pace;
Leave Weeks and Months behind thee in thy Race.
An Age, in her Embraces paft,
Would feem a Winter's Day;
Where Life and Light, with envious Hafte,
Are torn and fnatch'd away:
But oh! how flowly Minutes rowl,
When abfent from her Eyes,
That fed my Love, which is my
It languishes and dies :
For then no more a Soul, but Shade,
It mournfully does move;
And haunts my Breaft, by Abfence made
The living Tomb of Love.
And fefters by her Abfence.
The Wound was made by her bright Eyes,
Dryd. Temp.
The Deer once fhot, the Hunter may
Securely truft him, tho' he run away:
For, flying with his Wound, the Arrow more
Vexes and gauls him, than it did before:
Abfence from her you love, if Love be true,
Is a thin Cloud between the Sun and you :
It never takes the Object from your Eye,
But rather makes you abler to defcry:
On her in Abfence you must ever think:
For 'tis a kind of feeing when you wink.
Love's a high mettled Hawk, that beats the Air, But foon grows weary when the Game's not near. Dryd. Sir M. Mar-all.
Abfence alone can make our Sorrows lefs;
And not to fee what we can ne'er redress. Dryd. Ind. Emp.
My Heart can Danger, but not Abfence, bear:
To Love 'tis Wax, but Adamant to Fear. Sedi. Ant. & Cleop.'
- To fhort Abfence I could yield:
For fhort Retirement urges fweet Return. Milt. Par. Loft.
By a fhort Abfence mutual Joys encrease:
'Tis from the Toils of War we value Peace.
When Jove a while the fruitful Show'r restrains,
The Field, on his Return, a brighter Verdure gains. King.
Death of ACHILLES.
The Sire of Cygnus, Monarch of the Main,
Mean time, laments his Son in Battel flain,
And vows the Victor's Death, nor vows in vain,
For nine long Years the fmother'd Pain he bore;
Achilles was not ripe for Fate before:
Then, when he faw the promis'd Hour was near,
He thus befpoke the God that guides the Year:
Immortal Offspring of my Brother Jove,
My brigheft Nephew, and whom belt I love;
Whofe Hands were join'd with mine to raife the Wall
Of tott'ring Troy, now nodding to her Fall.
Doft thou not mourn our Pow'r imploy'd in vain;
And the Defenders of our City flain?
To pafs the reft, cou'd noble Hector lie
Unpity'd, drag'd around his native Troy?
And yet the Murd'rer lives: Himfelf by far
greater Plague, than all the wasteful War.
He lives, the proud Pelides lives, to boast
Our Town deftroy'd, our common Labour loft!
O, cou'd I meet him! But I wifh too late;
prove my Trident is not in his Fate.
Το
But let him try, for that's allow'd, thy Dart,
And pierce his only penetrable Part.
Apollo bows to the fuperior Throne;
And, to his Unkle's Anger, adds his own:
Then, in a Cloud involv'd, he takes his Flight,
Where Greeks and Trojans mix'd in mortal Fight;
And found out Paris, lurking where he stood,
And ftain'd his Arrows with Plebeian Blood.
Phoebus to him alone the God confefs'd;
Then to the recreant Knight he thus addrefs'd':
Dost thou not blush, to spend thy Shafts in vain
On a degen'rate and ignoble Train ?
If Fame, or better Vengeance be thy Care,
There aim; and, with one Arrow, end the War:
He faid, and fhew'd from far the blazing Shield,
And Sword, which, but Achilles, none cou'd wield;
And how he mov'd a God, and mow'd the ftanding Field,
The Deity himself directs aright
Th'invenom'd Shaft, and wings the fatal Flight.
Thus fell the Foremost of the Grecian Name;
And he, the base Adult'rer, boafts the Fame:
A Spectacle to glad the Trojan Train;
And pleafe old Priam, after Hector flain:
If by a Female Hand he had foreseen
He was to die, his Wifh had rather been,
The Lance and double Ax of the fair Warrior Queen.
And now the Terror of the Trojan Field,
The Grecian Honour, Ornament, and Shield,
High on a Pile th' unconquer'd Chief is plac'd:
The God, that arm'd him first, confum'd at last :
Of all the mighty Man, the fmall Remains
A little Urn, and fcarcely fill'd, contains:
Yet, great in Homer ftill, Achilles lives;
And, equal to himself, himself furvives. Dryd. Ovid.
Of thefe the falfe Achitophel was first;
A Name to all fucceeding Ages curft!
For clofe Designs, and crooked Counfels fit;
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of Wit:
Reftlefs, unfixt in Principles and Place;
In Pow'r unpleas'd, impatient of Difgrace:
A firy Soul, which, working out its Way,
Fretted the Pigmy Body to Decay,
And o'erinform'd the Tenement of Clay,
A daring Pilot in Extremity;
Pleas'd with the Danger, when the Waves went high,
He fought the Storm; but, for a Calm unfit,
Would fteer too nigh the Sands, to boast his Wit:
O, why wou'd he, with Wealth and Honour bleft,
Refufe his Age the needful Hours of Reft;
Punish a Body, which he cou'd not please,
Bankrupt of Life, yet prodigal of Eafe;
And all, to leave, what with his Toil he won,
To that unfeather'd, two-leg'd Thing, a Son?
Got, while his Soul did huddled Notions try,
And born a fhapeless Lump, like Anarchy.
In Friendship falfe, implacable in Hate,
Refolv'd to ruin, or to rule, the State.
Then, feiz'd with Fear, yet ftill affecting Fame,
Ufurp'd a Patriot's all-attoning Name.
Yet Fame deferv'd no Enemy can grudge;
The Statefman we abbor, but praife the Judge:
In Ifrael's Courts near fate an Abethdin,
With more difcerning Eyes, or Hands more clean:
Unbrib'd, unfought, the Wretched to redrefs,
Swift of Difpatch, and eafy of Accefs.
O! had he been content to ferve the Crown,
With Virtues only proper to the Gown;
Or had the Ranknefs of the Soil been freed
From Cockle, that opprefs'd the noble Seed;
David for him his tuneful Harp had ftrung,
And Heav'n had wanted one immortal Song. Dr. Abf. & Ach.
A Martial Hero firft, with early Care,
Blown, like a Pigmy by the Winds, to War:
A beardlefs Chief; a Rebel e'er a Man;
So young his Hatred to his Prince began.
Next this, (how wildly will Ambition steer!)
A Vermin, wriggling in th'Ufurper's Ear
Bart'ring his venal Wit for Sums of Gold,
He caft himself into the Saint-like Mold;
Groan'd, figh'd, and pray'd, while Godliness was Gain;
The loudeft Bagpipe of the fqueaking Train:
But, as tis hard to cheat a Juggler's Eyes,
His open Lewdnefs he could ne'er difguife:
There fplit the Saint; for hypocritick Zeal
Allows no Sins, but thofe it can conceal:
Whoring to Scandal gives too large a Scope;
Saints must not trade; but they may interlope.
Th'ungodly Principle was all the fame;
But a grofs Cheat betrays his Part'ner's Game:
Befides, their Pace was formal, grave, and flack;
His nimble Wit out-run the heavy Pack.
Yet ftill he found his Fortune at a Stay,
Whole Crowds of Blockheads choaking up his Way;
They took, but not rewarded, his Advice:
Villain and Wit exact a double Price.
Pow'r was his Aim; but, thrown from that Pretence,
The Wretch turn'd loyal in his own Defence,
And Malice reconcil'd him to his Prince.
Him, in the Anguifh of his Soul, he ferv'd;
Rewarded fafter still than he deferv'd.
|