ISAAC WATTS. 1674-1748.

FEW HAPPY MATCHES.

Sav, mighty Love, and teach my song,
To whom thy sweetest joys belong,

And who the happy pairs
Whose yielding hearts and joining hands
Find blessings twisted with their bands,

To soften all their cares.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into thy chains,

As custom leads the way:
If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,

And be as bless'd as they.

Not sordid souls of earthly mould,
Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold,

To dull embraces move :
So two rich 'mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,

And make a world of love.
Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging fires
The purer

bliss destroy:
On Ætna's top let furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed,

T'improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passions warms,

Can mingle hearts and hands :
Logs of green wood, that quench the coals,
Are married just like Stoic souls,
With osiers for their bands.

Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent or that still complain,

Can the dear bondage bless :
As well may heavenly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,

Or none besides the bass.

Nor can the soft enchantments hold
Two jarring souls of angry mould,

The rugged and the keen:
Samson's young foxes might as well
In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell,

With firebrands tied between.

Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;

For Love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear

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.

A MBROSE PHILIPS. 1671-1749.

A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO.

Bless'd as the immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak and sweetly smile.

'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
Ran quickly through my vital frame :
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung
In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd;
My feeble pulse forgot to play,
I fainted, sunk, and died away.

WILLIAM COLLINS. 1720-1756.

ODE.

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,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ;
Their Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall a while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

ODE TO EVENING.
Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear,

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,
As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;

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.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,

Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.

Or if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut

That from the mountain's side

Views wild and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

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:
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy

shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes :
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favourite name!

THE PASSIONS.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting ;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb’d, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound,

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