XII.

And fee! the lovely Form appear,
Before my ravifh'd Eyes!

Close to yon Chryftal Stream the Charmer lies,
Behold her, Swains, behold her there;
Impending Branches fhield the Fair,

And Beds of Cámomile the beauteous Burthen bear.
See, how reclining on the Grass,

In this clear Brook, her faithful Glass,
First she collects her scatter'd Hair,

Then in Treffes,

As the dreffes,

Places ev'ry Flow'r that's gay,

Places all the Pride of May,
Not to adorn, but to compare.

In vain with Her's their brightest Colours vie,
The blufhing Rofe

Its Weaknefs knows,

And vanquish'd Lillies own her Victory.

Nor raises she her Head, but downward bent,

Approves their Form, and fmiling feems content, Obferve the Troops of Loves

That fwarm about the Groves,

Lean on their Wings, and hanging in the Air, Mistake the Nymph, and think their Mother there,

XIII. Gently

XIII.

Gently, fweet Zephyr, gently blow,
And make th' injurious Mantle rise,
And wound our Hearts and please our Eyes.
Unveil the Nymph, dear Wind remove
Thofe Clouds that hide this World of Love,
And see the friendly Breeze obeys,

Saluting he betrays.

O! give her Slave to know,

That Sea of Milk, thofe Hills of Snow, And all the blissful Vales of Joy below. He would, but can no more disclose : Refifting Robes oppofe :

The thousand Folds of that invidious Veft,
Infhrine their Treafure, and our Sight arrest.
Corporeal Eyes no farther reach;

But Fancy is not thus confin'd;
Fancy can enter thro' the smallest Breach,
And thro' the fubtle Plaits a Paffage find.
Thus having pierc'd the Screen,

Fancy relates what she has seen,

And tires the Soul while fhe inftructs the Mind.

XIV.

Thus we, fond Wretches, court our Fate,

And when the pointed Darts,

Increase the Pains we might abate,
And plunge 'em in our Hearts.

In vain we hope to find a Cure,

No Remedy is nigh;

Without Relief we must endure,
And without Pity die.

Fair Almahide gives Love to All,
All that dare look her Victims fall;
But the herself Receives from None,
Or what's the fame to Me, from One;
One happy Man that dwells within those Arms,
Taftes all her Joys, and rifles all her Charms.
While dying Crouds of Lovers ftand,
And look, and gaze, and wish to share;
But Virtue with her Magic Wand,
Encircles round the Happy Pair.

Thus when the Moon on Larian-Latmus lay
And rapt in Pleasure laugh'd her Hours away,
Her Beauty and her Light to all Mankind,
Without Distinction fhin'd,

But to Endymion was her Love confin❜d †.

The laft Thought, and the laft Line, are taken from Lord Lanfdowne. I think myself obliged to own the Debt, tho' I am un able to pay it.

Alluding to the Story of Diana and Endymion.

Dawley-FARM,

THE

RETIREMENT

O F

Lord BOLINGBROKE.

'TIS

IS fung, that, exil'd by Tyrannic Jove,
Apollo, from the starry Realms above,
To Sylvan Shades, to Grots and Streams retir'd,
And that new Scene and that new State admir'd;
Admir'd, but found (with Pleasure and Surprize)
Himself the fame on Earth as in the Skies;
A fimple Majefty, an eafy Grace

Compos'd his Steps, and lighten'd in his Face;
The wond'ring Swains and Nymphs, where'er he trod,
At Distance gaz'd, and recogniz'd the God;
Where'er he pass'd, the World, his Influence knew
And Learning, Arts, and Wisdom round him grew,

Still, tho' in filent Privacy, he gave,

His wonted Aid; infpired the Wife and Brave;
Taught Patriots Policy; taught Poets Sense;
And bade all live, or die, in LIBERTY's Defence.

Sure this is verify'd: What here we view In BOLINGBROKE has made the Fiction true.

See! Emblem of Himself, his Villa ftand! Politely finish'd, regularly Grand! Frugal of Ornament, but That the best, And all with curious Negligence express'd. No gaudy Colours ftain the Rural Hall, Blank Light and Shade defcriminate the Wall; Where thro' the whole we fee his lov'd Design, To please with Mildness, without Glaring shine; Himself neglects what must all others charm, And what he built a Palace calls a Farm. Here the proud Trophies, and the Spoils of War Yield to the Scythe, the Harrow and the Car; To whate'er Implement the Rustic wields, Whate'er manures the Gardens or the Fields. Contraft of Scenes! Behold a worthless Tool, A dubb'd Plebeian, Fortune's Fav'rite Fool, Laden with Public Plunder loll in State,

"Midft dazling Gems, and Piles of Maffy Plate, 'Midft Arms, and Kings, and Gods and Heroes

quaff,

His Wit all ending in an Ideot-Laugh,

Whilft noble Saint-John in his fweet Recefs,

(By thofe made greater who would make him less)

Sees,