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Why, Virtue, doft thou blame defire,
Which Nature has impreft?
Why, Nature, doft thou fooneft fire
The mild and generous breaft?


Love's purer flames the Gods approve;

The Gods and Brutus bend to Love:
Brutus for abfent Porcia fighs,

And fterner Caffius melts at Junia's eyes.
What is loofe love? a transient gust,
Spent in a fudden ftorm of luft,
A vapour fed from wild defire,
A wandering, felf-confuming fire.
But Hymen's kinder flames unite;
And burn for ever one;

Chafte as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the Sun.


Oh fource of every focial tye,





United wish, and mutual joy !

What various joys on one attend,

As fon, as father, brother, husband, friend?

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His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With reverence, hope, and love.




Hence guilty joys, distastes, furmizes,
Hence falfe tears, deceits, difguifes,
Dangers, doubts, delays, furprizes ;

Fires that fcorch, yet dare not fhine :
Pureft love's unwasting treasure,
Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure;
Days of eafe, and nights of pleasure ;
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.



Written when the Author was about Twelve Years old.

HAPPY the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.

Whofe herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whofe flocks fupply him with attire,

Whofe trees in fummer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years flide foft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day.

Sound fleep by night; ftudy and ease,
Together mix'd; fweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please

With meditation,

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Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown,

Thus unlamented let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

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ITAL fpark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame :
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,

Oh the pain, the blifs of dying!
Ceafe, fond Nature, ceafe thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life.


Hark! they whisper; Angels fay,
Sifter Spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite?

Steals my fenfes, shuts my fight,
Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death?


The world recedes; it disappears!



Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears

With founds feraphic ring:


Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!

O Grave! where is thy Victory?

O Death! where is thy Sting?






Written in the Year M DCC IX*.

"Si quid novifti rectius iftis,

"Candidus imperti; fi non, his utere mecum.'


* Mr. Pope told me himself, that the "Effay on "Criticifm" was indeed written in 1707, though said 1709 by mistake. J. RICHARDSON.

THE Poem is in one book, but divided into three prin- · cipal parts or members. The firft [to ver. 201.] gives rules for the Study of the Art of Criticifin; the fecond [from thence to ver. 560.] exposes the Caufes of wrong Judgment; and the third [from thence to the end] marks out the Morals of the Critic. When the Reader hath well considered the whole, and hath obferved the regularity of the plan, the masterly conduct of the feveral parts, the penetration into Nature, and the compafs of learning fo confpicuous throughout, he should then be told that it was the work of an Author who had not attained the twentieth year of his age. A very learned Critic has fhewn, that Horace had the fame attention to method in his Art of Poetry.


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