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ISAAC WATTS. 1674-1748.
FEW HAPPY MATCHES.
Sav, mighty Love, and teach my song,
And who the happy pairs
To soften all their cares.
Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
As custom leads the way:
And be as bless'd as they.
Not sordid souls of earthly mould,
To dull embraces move :
And make a world of love.
T'improve the burning joy.
Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
Can mingle hearts and hands :
Not minds of melancholy strain,
Can the dear bondage bless :
Or none besides the bass.
Nor can the soft enchantments hold
The rugged and the keen:
With firebrands tied between.
Nor let the cruel fetters bind
For Love abhors the sight:
Rise and forbid delight. Two kindest souls alone must meet, 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves : Bright Venus on her rolling throne Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,
And Cupids yoke the doves.
AMBROSE PHILIPS. 1671-1749.
A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO.
Bless'd as the immortal gods is he,
'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And raised such tumults in my breast; For while I gazed, in transport toss'd, My breath was gone, my voice was lost.
My bosom glow'd: the subtle flame
WILLIAM COLLINS. 1720-1756.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes bless'd! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
ODE TO EVENING.
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs and dying gales; Oh nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed : Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short, shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return ! for when thy folding star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours, and elves
Who slept in buds the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with
sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,
The pensive pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Whose walls more awful nod
Or if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain,
That from the mountain's side
Views wild and swelling floods,
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light:
Thy gentlest influence own,
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,