The frighted Birds the rattling Branches shun,
That wave and glitter in the distant Sun.
When if a sudden Gust of Wind arise,
The brittle Forrest into Atoms flies:
The crackling Wood beneath the Tempest bends,
And in a spangled Show'r the Prospect ends.
Or if a Southern Gale the Region warm,
And by Degrees unbind the Wintry Charm;
The Traveller a miry Country sees,
And Journeys sad beneath the dropping Trees.
Like some deluded Peasant, Merlin leads
Thro' fragrant Bow'rs, and thro' delicious Meads;
While here inchanted Gardens to him rise,
And airy Fabricks there attract his Eyes,
His wand'ring Feet the Magick Paths pursue;
And while he thinks the fair Illusion true,
The trackless Scenes disperse in fluid Air,
And Woods and Wilds, and thorny Ways appear:
A tedious Road the weary Wretch returns,
And, as He goes, the transient Vision mourns.
The Tatler, May 5-7, 1709
Fragment of Sappho
LEST as th' Immortal Gods is he,
BThe Youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak and sweetly smile.
"Twas this depriv'd my Soul of Rest,
And rais'd such Tumults in my Breast;
For while I gaz'd, in Transport tost,
My Breath was gone, my Voice was lost:
My Bosom glow'd; the subtle Flame
Ran quick thro' all 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 Horrours thrill'd;
My feeble Pulse forgot to play;
I fainted, sunk, and dy'd away.
The Spectator, November 22, 1711
To Miss Charlotte Pulteney
in her Mother's Arms
IMELY blossom, infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn, and every night,
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please,
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tatling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue,
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandon'd to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,
Yet too innocent to blush,
Like the linlet in the bush,
To the Mother-linnet's note
Moduling her slender throat,
Chirping forth thy petty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May,
Flitting to each bloomy spray,
Wearied then, and glad of rest,
Like the linlet in the nest.
This thy present happy lot,
This, in time, will be forgot:
Other pleasures, other cares,
Ever-busy time prepares;
And thou shalt in thy daughter see,
This picture, once, resembled thee.
ITTLE Siren of the stage,
Charmer of an idle age,
Empty warbler, breathing lyre,
Wanton gale of fond desire,
Bane of every manly art,
Sweet enfeebler of the heart,
O, too pleasing in thy strain,
Hence, to southern climes again;
Tuneful mischief, vocal spell,
To this island bid farewel;
Leave us as we ought to be,
Leave the Britons rough and free.
The Musical Miscellany, v. 1731
Colin's Complaint
ESPAIRING beside a clear Stream,
A Shepherd forsaken was laid;
And while a false Nymph was his Theme,
A Willow supported his Head.
The Wind that blew over the Plain,
To his Sighs with a Sigh did reply;
And the Brook, in return to his Pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
Alas, silly Swain that I was!
Thus sadly complaining he cry'd,
When first I beheld that fair Face,
"Twere better by far I had dy'd.
She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear Tongue;
When she smil'd, 'twas a Pleasure too great.
I listen'd, and cry'd, when she sung,
Was Nightingale ever so sweet?
How foolish I was to believe
She could doat on so lowly a Clown,
Or that her fond Heart would not grieve
To forsake the fine Folk of the Town?
To think that a Beauty so gay,
So kind and so constant would prove;
Or go clad like our Maidens in Grey,
Or live in a Cottage on Love?
What tho' I have Skill to complain,
Tho' the Muses my Temples have crown'd;
What tho' when they hear my soft Strain,
The Virgins sit weeping around.
Ah, Colin, thy Hopes are in vain,
Thy Pipe and thy Lawrel resign;
Thy false one inclines to a Swain,
Whose Musick is sweeter than thine.
And you, my Companions so dear,
Who sorrow to see me betray'd,
Whatever I suffer, forbear,
Forbear to accuse the false Maid.
Tho' thro' the wide World. I should range,
"Tis in vain from my Fortune to fly,
'Twas hers to be false and to change,
"Tis mine to be constant and die.
If while my hard Fate I sustain,
In her Breast any Pity is found,
Let her come with the Nymphs of the Plain,
And see me laid low in the Ground.
The last humble Boon that I crave,
Is to shade me with Cypress and Yew;
And when she looks down on my Grave,
Let her own that her Shepherd was true.
Then to her new Love let her go,
And deck her in Golden Array,
Be finest at ev'ry fine Show,
And frolick it all the long Day;
While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more shall be talk'd of, or seen,
Unless when beneath the pale Moon
His Ghost shall glide over the Green.
Written about 1712; broadside of about 1715
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