Kind fears, impatient wishes, foft defires,
Each melting charm that Love alone inspires ?
Thefe, these are loft; and I behold no more
The maid, my heart delighted to adore.
Yet, ftill unchang'd, ftill doating to excess,
I ought, but dare not try, to love you lefs;
Weakly I grieve, unpitied I complain;
But not unpunish'd shall your change remain;
For you, cold maid, whom no complaints can move,
Were far more bleft, when you like me could love.
HEN I think on your truth, I doubt you no
I blame all the fears I gave way to before :
I fay to my heart, "Be at reft, and believe
"That whom once she has chofen fhe never will leave.'
But, ah! when I think on each ravishing grace
That plays in the smiles of that heavenly face;
My heart beats again; I again apprehend
Some fortunate rival in every friend.
These painful fufpicions you cannot remove,
Since you neither can leffen your charms nor my love;
But doubts caus'd by paffion you never can blame;
For they are not ill founded, or you feel the fame.
ITH me while prefent, may thy lovely eyes
Be never turn'd upon this golden toy :
Think every pleafing hour too swiftly flies;
And measure time, by joy fucceeding joy!
But when the cares that interrupt our bliss
To me not always will thy fight allow;
Then oft with kind impatience look on this,
Then every minute count-as I do now.
YE fylvan scenes with artless beauty gay,
Ye gentle fhades of Wickham, fay,
What is the charm that each fucceffive year,
Which fees me with my Lucy here,
Can thus to my transported heart
A fenfe of joy unfelt before impart ?
Is it glad Summer's balmy breath, that blows
From the fair jafmine and the blushing rose?
Her balmy breath, and all her blooming store
Of rural blifs, was here before:
Oft have I met her on the verdant fide
Of Norwood-hill, and in the yellow meads,
Where Pan the dancing Graces leads,
Array'd in all her flowery pride.
No fweeter fragrance now the gardens yield,
No brighter colours paint th' enamel'd field.
Is it to Love thefe new delights I owe?
Four times has the revolving fun
His annual circle through the zodiac run;
Since all that Love's indulgent power
On favour'd mortals can bestow,
Was given to me in this aufpicious bower.
Here firft my Lucy, fweet in virgin charms,
Was yielded to my longing arms;
And round our nuptial bed,
Hovering with purple wings, th' Idalian boy
Shook from his radiant torch the blissful fires
Of innocent defires,
While Venus fcatter'd myrtles o'er her head.
Whence then this ftrange increase of joy He, only he, can tell, who, match'd like me, (If such another happy man there be)
Has by his own experience tried
How much the wife is dearer than the bride.
A MONOD Y. A.D. 1747.
Ipfe cavâ folans ægrum teftudine amorem, "Te dulcis conjux, te folo in littore fecum, "Te veniente die, te decedente canebat."
T length efcap'd from every human eye,
From every duty, every care,
That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;
Beneath the gloom of this embowering fhade,
This lone retreat, for tender forrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my ftores of grief;
Of grief furpaffing every other woe,
Far as the pureft blifs, the happieft love
Can on th' ennobled mind beftow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our grofs defires, inelegant and low.
Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'erfhadowing hills,
Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy feen!
But never fhall you now behold her more:
Nor will she now with fond delight
And tafte refin'd your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine
Reafon's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.
Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;
For her defpifing, when the deign'd to fing,
The sweeteft fongfters of the spring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more;
The nightingale was mute,
And every fhepherd's flute
Was caft in filent fcorn away,
While all attended to her fweeter lay.
Ye larks and linnets, now refume your fong:
And thou, melodious Philomel,
Again thy plaintive story tell;
For death has ftopt that tuneful tongue, Whofe mufic could alone your warbling notes excel.
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