'Tis his with mock paffion to glow;
'Tis his in fmooth tales to unfold,
"How her face is as bright as the fnow,
"And her bofom, be sure, is as cold:
"How the nightingales labour the strain,
"With the notes of his charmer to vie ;
"How they vary their accents in vain,
"Repine at her triumphs, and die."
To the grove or the garden he ftrays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, fuiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
"O Phyllis," he whifpers, "more fair,
"More sweet than the jeffamine's flow'r!
"What are pinks, in a morn, to compare ?
"What eglantine after a show'r?
Then the lily no longer is white!
"Then the role is depriv'd of its bloom;
"Then the violets die with despite,
"And the woodbines gives up their perfume."
Thus glide the foft numbers along,
And he fancies no fhepherd his peer;
Yet I never fhould envy the fong,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound.
So Phyllis the trophy defpife;
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they fhine not in Phyllis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart
Is a ftranger to Paridel's tongue,
Yet may she beware of his art,
Or fure I muft envy the fong-
IV. DISAPPOINTMENT.
E fhepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my fheep:
They have nothing to do but to stray;
I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove ;
She was fair-and my paffion begun : She fmil'd-and I could not but love; She is faithlefs-and I am undone.
Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a nymph fo complete would be fought
By a fwain more engaging than me.
Ah! love ev'ry hope can infpire :
It banishes wifdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
She is faithlefs, and I am undone ;
Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Let Reason inflruct you to fhun,
What it cannot inftruct you to cure.
Beware how you loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of an higher degree;
It is not for me to explain
How fair and how fickle they be.
Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end to my woes ?
When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that und'd my repofe.
Yet time may diminish the pain:
The flow'r, and the fhrub, and the tree,
Which I rear'd for her pleafure, in vain,
In time have comfort for me.
The fweets of a dew-fprinkled rofe,
The found of a murmuring ftream,
The pace which from folitude flows,
Henceforth fhall be Corydon's theme.
High tranfports are fhewn to the fight,
But we are not to find them our own:
Fate never bellow'd fuch delight,
As I with my Phyllis had known.
Oye woods, fpread your branches apace;
To your deepest receffes I fly;
I would hide with the beafts of the chace;
I would vanish from ev'ry eye.
Yet my reed fhall refound thro' the
grove With the fame fad complaint it begun ; How fhe fmil'd, and I could not but love; Was faithlefs, and I am undone !
EXPRESSION, child of foul ! I love to trace
Thy flrongeft enchantments, when the poet's lyre,
The painter's pencil, catch the vivid fire,
And beauty wakes for thee each touching grace!
But from my frighted gaze thy form avert,
When horror chills thy tear, thy ardent figh,
When phrenzy rolls in thy impaffion'd eye,
Or guilt lives fearful at thy troubled heart :
Nor ever let my fhudd'ring fancy hear
The walling groan, or view the pallid look
Of him the Mufes lov'd, when hope forfook
His fpirit, vainly to the Mufs dear
For charm'd with heavenly fong, this bleeding breast Mourns it could fharpen ill, and give defpair no reft!
WHEN Mufic, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece fhe fung,
The Paffions oft, to hear her fhell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Poffeft beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Difturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.
Till once, 'tis faid, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the fupporting myrtles round
They fnatch'd her inftruments of found,
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet leffons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expreffive pow'r..
First Fear his hand, its fkill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Ev'n at the found himself had made.
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