As toughest trees in ftorms are bred,
And grow in spite of winds, and spread
'The more the tempeft tears and shakes
My love, the deeper root it takes.

Despair, that aconite does prove,
And certain death to others love;
That poison, never yet withstood,
Does nourish mine, and turns to food.
O for what crime is my torn heart
Condemn'd to fuffer deathless smart?
Like fad Prometheus, thus to lie
In endless pain, and never die.

PHYLLIS DRINKING.

WHILE Phillis is drinking, love and wine in alliance,

With forces united, bid refiftlefs defiance;
By the touch of her lips the wine sparkles higher,
And her eyes, by her drinking, redouble their fire.
Her cheeks glow the brighter, recruiting their
colour,

As flowers by fprinkling revive with fresh odour;
Each dart dip'd in wine, gives a wound beyond
curing,
[enduring.

And the liquor, like oil, makes the flame more

Then Phyllis, begin, let our raptures abound, And a kifs, and a glafs, be ftill going round, Relieving each other, our pleasures are lafting, And we never are cloy'd, yet are ever a-tafting,

TO MYRA.

PREPAR'D to rail, resolv'd to part,

When I approach'd the perjur'd fair, What is it awes my timorous heart? Why does my tongue forbear?

With the least glance, a little kind,

Such wond'rous pow'r have Myra's charms, She calms my doubts, enflaves my mind, And all my rage difarms.

Forgetful of her broken vows,

When gazing on that form divine, Her injur❜d vaffal trembling bows, Nor dares her slave repine.

THE ENCHANTMENT.

IN IMITATION OF THEOCRITUS,

Mix, mix the philters, quick-she flies, the flies, Deaf to my call, regardlefs of my cries.

Are vows fo vain? could oaths fo feeble prove? Ah!' with what ease she breaks those chains of love!

Whom love with all his force had bound in vain,
Let charms compel, and magic rites regain.
Begin, begin, the myftic fpells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer,

Queen of the night, bright emprefs of the ftars,
The friend of love, affi. a lover's cares;
And thou, infernal Hecate, be nigh.

At whofe approach fierce wolves affrighted fly:
Dark tombs difclofe their dead, and hollow cries
Echo from under ground-Arife, arise.

Begin, begin, the myftic ipells prepare, Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer: As crackling in the fire this laurel lies, So, ftruggling in love's flame, her lover dies; It bursts, and in a blaze of light expires, So may the burn, but with more lalting fires. Begin, begin, the myftic fpeils prepare, Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer. As the wax melts, which to the flame I hold, So may fhe melt, and never more grow cold. Tough iron will yield, and ftubborn marble run, And hardest hearts by love are melted down, Begin, begin, the mftyic spells prepare, Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer. As with impetuous motion whirling round, This magic wheel still moves, yet keeps its ground, Ever returning, fo may the come back, And never more the appointed round foríake.

Begin, begin, the mystic spells prepare, Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer. Diana, hail! all hail mot welcome thou, To whom th' infernal king and judges bow; O thou, whofe art the power of hell disarms, Upon a faithlefs woman try thy charms. Hark! the dogs howl, fhe comes, the goddef's

comes,

Sound the loud trump, and beat our brazen drums.
Begin, begin, the mystic spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
How calm's the fky! how undisturb'd the deep!
Nature is hufh'd, the very tempests fleep;

The drowsy winds breathe gently through the

trees,

And filent on the beach, repose the seas :
Love only wakes; the ftorm that tears my breast
For ever rages, and distracts my rest:

O love! relentless love! tyrant accurs'd,
In defarts bred, by cruel tygers nurs'd!

Begin, begin, the mystic fpells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
This ribbon, that once bound her lovely waist,
O that my arms might gird her there as fast!
Smiling fhe gave it, and I priz'd it more
Than the rich zone the Idalian goddess wore:
This ribbon, this lov'd relick of the fair,
So kifs'd, and so preferv'd-thus-thus I tear.
O love! why doft thou thus delight to rend
My foul with pain? ah! why torment thy friend?
Begin, begin, the myftic fpells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
Thrice have I facrific'd, and proftrate thrice
Ador'd: aflift, ye powers, the facrifice.
Whoe'er he is whom now the fair beguiles
With guilty glances, and with perjur'd fmiles,
Malignant vapours blaft his impious head,
Ye lightnings fcorch him, thunder ftrike him

dead;

Horror of confcience all his flumbers break, Diftract his reft, as love keeps me awake;

Y y iij

If married, may his wife an Helen be,
And, curs'd, and fcorn'd, like Menelaus, he.
Begin, begin, the myftic fpells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
Thefe powerful drops, thrice on the threshold pour,
And bathe with this enchanted juice, her door,
That door where no admittance now is found,
But where my foul is ever hovering round.
Haste, and obey; and binding be the fpell:
Here ends my charm; O love! fucceed it well:
By force of magic, ftop the flying fair,
Bring Myra back, my perjur'd wanderer.
Thou'rt now alone, and painful is restraint,
Ease thy prest heart, and give thy forrows vent
Whence sprang, and how began these griefs de-
clare;

How much thy love, how cruel thy despair.
Ye moon and stars, by whofe aufpicious light
I haunt these groves, and waste the tedious night!
Tell, for you know the burden of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret fmart.
Too late for hope, for my repofe too foon
I saw, and lov'd: her heart engag'd, was gone;
A happier man poffefs'd whom I adore;
O! I should ne'er have seen, or feen before.
Tell, for you know the burden of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its secret smart.
What shall I do? fhall I in filence bear,
Destroy myself, or kill the ravisher?
Die, wretched lover, die! but O! beware,
Hurt not the man who is belov'd by her ;
Wait for a better hour, and truft thy fate,
Thou feek'ft her love, beget not then her hate.
Tell, for you know the burden of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its secret smart.
My life consuming with eternal grief,
From herbs, and fpells, I feek a vain relief;
To every wife magician I repair
In vain, for still I love, and I defpair.
Circe, Medea, and the Cybil's books,
Contain not half th' enchantment of her looks.
Tell, for you know the burden of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret smart.
As melted gold preferves its weight the fame,
So burn'd my love, nor wafted in the flame.
And now, unable to fupport the ftrife,
A glimmering hope recalls departing life:
My rival dying, I no longer grieve,
Since I may afk, and fhe with honour give.
Tell, for you know the burden of my heart,
Its killing anguifh, and its fecret smart.
Witness, ye hours, with what unwearied care,
From place to place I ftill purfu'd the fair;
Nor was occafion to reveal my flame,
Slow to my fuccour, for it kindly came;
It came, it came, that moment of delight,
O gods! and how I trembled at the fight!

Tell, for you know the burden of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret fmart.
Dismay'd, and motionless, confus'd, amaz'd,
Trembling I ftood, and terrify'd I gaz'd;
My faultering tongue in vain for utterance try'd,
Faint was my voice, my thoughts abortive dy'd,
Or in weak founds, and broken accents came,
Imperfect, as difcourfes in a dream.

Tell, for you know the burden of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret fmart.
Soon the divin'd what this confufion meant,
And guess'd with eafe the caufe of my complaint.
My tongue emboldening as her looks were mild,
At length I told my griefs and ftill fhe fmil'd.
O fyren! fyren! fair deluder, fay,

Why would you tempt to truft, and then betray?
So faithless now, why gave you hopes before?
Alas! you fhould have been lefs kind, or more.
Tell, for you know the burden of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret smart.
Secure of innocence, I feek to know

From whence this change, and my misfortunes grow,

Rumour is loud, and every voice proclaims
Her violated faith, and confcious flames:
Can this be true? ah flattering mischief speak;
Could you make vows, and in a moment break?
And can the space fo very narrow be
Betwixt a woman's oath, and perjury?

O jealoufy all other ills at first

My love effay'd, but thou art fure the worst.
Tell, for you know the burden of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret fmart.
Ungrateful Myra! urge me thus no more,
Nor think me tame, that once fo long I bore;
If paffion, dire revenge, or black despair,
Should once prevail beyond what man can bear,
Who knows what I? ah feeble rage, and vain!
With how fecure a brow fhe mocks my pain:
Thy heart, fond lover, does thy threats belie,
Canft thou hurt her, for whom thou yet wouldst
die?

Nor durft fhe thus thy just refentment brave,
But that she knows how much thy foul's her flave.
But fee! Aurora rising with the sun,
Diffolves my charm, and frees th' enchanted meon;
My fpells no longer bind at fight of day,
And young Endymion calls his love away:
Love's the reward of all, on earth, in heaven,
And for a plague to me alane was given:
But ills not to be fhunn'd, we must endure,
Death, and a broken heart's a ready cure.
Cynthia, farewell, go reft thy wearied light,
I must for ever wake-We'll meet again at night.

THE VISION.

IN lonely walks, diftracted by despair,
Shunning mankind, and torn with killing care,
My eyes o'erflowing, and my frantic mind
Rack'd with wild thoughts, fwelling with figh:
the wind;

Through paths untrodden, day and night I rove,
Mourning the fate of my fuccefslefs love.
Who most defire to live, untimely fall,
But when we beg to die, death flies our call;
Adonis dies, and torn is the lov'd breaft
In midst of joy, where Venus wont to rest;
That fate, which cruel feem'd to him, would be
Pity, relief, and happiness to me.

When will my forrows end? in vain, in vain
I call to heaven, and tell the gods my pain 3

The gods averfe, like Myra, to my prayer,
Confent to doom, whom the denies to spare.
Why do I feek for foreign aids, when I
Bear ready by my fide the power to die?

Be keen, my fword, and serve thy master well, Heal wounds with wounds, and love with death repel.

Straight up I rofe, and to my aking breast,
My bofom bare, the ready point I prest;
When lo astonish'd, an unusual light

Fierc'd the thick fhade, and all around grew bright;

My dazzled eyes a radiant form behold,
Splendid with light, like beams of burning gold;
Eternal rays his fhining temples grace;
Eternal youth fat blooming on his face.
Trembling I liften, proftrate on the ground,

His breath perfumes the grove, and mufic's in the found *.

Cease, lover, ceafe, thy tender heart to vex,
In fruitless plaints of an ungrateful fex.

In fate's eternal volumes it is writ,
That women ever fhall be foes to wit.
With proper arts their fickly minds command,
And please 'em with the things they understand;
With noify fcpperies their hearts affail,

Renounce all fenfe; how fhould thy fongs pre-
vail ?

When 1, the God of wit, so oft could fail?
Remember me, and in my story find
How vainly merit pleads to womankind:
I, by whom all things fhine, who tune the spheres,
Create the day, and gild the night with ftars;
Whose youth and beauty, from all ages paft, [laft.
Sprang with the world, and with the world shall
How oft with fruitless tears have I implor'd
Ungrateful nymphs, and though a god, ador'd?
When could my wit, my beauty, or my youth,
Move a hard heart? or, mov'd, fecure its truth?
Here a proud nymph, with painful fteps I chafe,
The winds out-flying in our nimble race;
Stay, Daphne, ftay In vain, in vain I try
To stop her speed, redoubling at my cry,
O'er craggy rocks, and rugged hills the climbs,
And tears on pointed flints her tender limbs:
'Till caught at length, just as my arms I fold,
Turn'd to a tree fhe yet efcapes my hold.

In my next love, a diff'rent fate I find,
Ah! which is worse, the falfe, or the unkind?
Forgetting Daphne, I Coronis + chofe,
A kinder nymph-too kind for my repofe;
The joys I give, but more provoke her breast,
She keeps a private drudge to quench the reft;
How, and with whom, the very birds proclaim
Her black pollution, and reveal my fhame.
Hard lot of beauty! fatally bestow'd,
Or given to the falfe, or to the proud;
By different ways they bring us equal pain,
The falfe betray us, and the proud difdain.
Scorn'd and abus'd, from mortal loves I fly,
To feek more truth in my own native fky.

Venus, the fairest of immortal loves,

Bright as my beams, and gentle as her doves,
With glowing eyes, confeffing warm defires,
She fummons heaven and earth to quench her fires,
Me fhe excludes; and I in vain adore,
Who neither god nor man refus'd before;
Vulcan, the very monfler of the fkies,
Vulcan fhe takes, the god of wit denies.

Then cease to murmur at thy Myra's pride,
Whimfy, not reafon, is the female guide:
The fate, of which their master does complain,
Is of bad omen to th' inspired train.

What vows have fail'd? Hark how Catullus

mourns,

How Ovid weeps, and flighted Gallus burns;
In melting ftrains fee gentle Waller bleed,
Unmo'd fhe heard, what none unmov'd can read.
And thou, who oft with fuch ambitious choice,
Haft rais'd to Myra thy aspiring voice,
What profit thy neglected zeal repays?
Ah what return? Ungrateful to thy praise?
Change, change thy ftyle, with mortal rage re-

turo

Unjust disdain, and pride oppose to scorn;
Search all the fecrets of the fair and young,
And then proclaim, foon fhall they bribe thy

tongue;

The fharp detractor with success affails,
Sure to be gentle to the man that rails;
Women, like cowards, tame to the severe,
Are only fierce when they difcover fear.

Thus fpake the god; and upward mounts in air,
In just refentment of his past despair.
Provok'd to vengeance, to my aid I call
The furies round, and dip my pen in gall:
Not one fhall 'scape of all the cozening fex,
Vex'd fhall they be, who fo delight to vex.
In vain I try, in vain to vengeance move
My gentle mufe, fo us'd to tender love;
Such magic rules my heart, whate'er I write
Turns all to foft complaint, and amorous flight.
Begone, fond thoughts, begone, be bold, faid I,
Satire's thy theme-In vain again I try,
So charming Myra to each fenfe appears,
My foul adores, my rage diffolves in tears.

So the gall'd lion, fmarting with his wound, Threatens his foes, and makes the foreft found, With his strong teeth he bites the bloody dart, And tears his fide with more provoking fmart, Till having spent his voice in fruitless cries, [dies. He lays him down, breaks his proud heart, and

ADIEU L'AMOUR.

HERE end my chains, and thraldom cease,
If not in joy, I'll live at least in peace;
Since for the pleasures of an hour,
We mult endure an age of pain,
I'll be this abject thing no more,
Love, give me back my heart again.

Despair tormented first my breast,
Now falfehood, a more cruel guest;

O! for the peace of humankind, Make women longer true, or sooner kind: With juftice, or with mercy reign, O love! or give me back my heart again.

LOVE.

To love, is to be doom'd on earth to feel
What after death the tortur'd meet in hell:
The vulture dipping in Prometheus' fide
His bloody beak, with his torn liver dy'd,
Is love: The flone that labours up the hill,
Mocking the labourer's toil, returning ftill,
Is love. Thofe ftreams where Tantalus is curft
To fit, and never drink, with endless thirft:
Those loaden boughs that with their burden bend
To court his tafte, and yet escape his hand,
All this is love, that to diffembled joys
Invites vain men, with real grief destroys.

MEDITATION ON DEATH.

ENOUGH, enough, my foul, of worldly noife,
Of aëry pomps, and fleeting joys;
What does this bufy world provide at beft,
But brittle goods that break like glafs,
But poifon'd fweets, a troubled feast, [pafs?
And pleasures like the winds, that in a moment
Thy thoughts to nobler meditations give,
And study how to die, not how to live.

How frail is beauty? Ah! how vain,
And how fhort-liv'd thofe glories are,
That vex our nights and days with pain,
And break our hearts with care!

In duft we no distinction fee,
Such Helen is, fuch, Myra, thou must be.
How fhort is life? why will vain courtiers toil,
And crowd a vainer monarch, for a fmile?
What is that monarch, but a mortal man,
His crown a pageant, and his life a span ?
With all his guards and his dominions, he
Muft ficken too, and die as well as we.
Those boafted names of conquerors and kings
Are fwallow'd, and become forgotten things:
One deftin'd period men in common have,
The great, the base, the coward, and the brave,
All food alike for worms, companions in the

grave.

The prince and parafite together lie,

Words are the paint by which their thoughts are

And nature fits, the object to be drawn ;
The written picture we applaud, or blame,
But as the due proportions are the fame.
Who driven with ungovernable fire,

Or void of art, beyond these bounds aspire,
Gigantic forms, and monstrous births alone
Produce, which nature fhock'd, difdains to own.
By true reflexion I would fee my face,
Why brings the fool a magnifying glass ?

(1)

But poetry in fiction takes delight, "And mounting in bold figures out of fight, "Leaves truth behind, in her audacious flight:

"Fables and metaphors, that always lie, "And rafh hyperboles that foar so high, "And every ornament of verfe muft die." Miftake me not: no figures I exclude, And but forbid intemperance, not food. Who would with care fome happy fiction frame, So mimics truth, it looks the very fame; Not rais'd to force, or feign'd in nature's fcorn, But meant to grace, illuftrate, and adorn. Important truths ftill let your fables hold, And moral myfteries with art unfold. Ladies and beaux to pleafe, is all the task, But the sharp critic will instruction ask.

(2) As veils transparent cover, but not hide, Such metaphors appear when right apply'd; When thro' the phrafe we plainly see the sense, Truth, where the meaning's obvious, will difpenfe; The reader what in reason's due, believes, Nor can we call that falfe, which not deceives. (3) Hyperboles, fo daring and fo bold, Dildaining bounds, are yet by rules control'd; Above the clouds, but ftill within our fight, They mount with truth, and make a tow'ring flight,

Prefenting things impoffible to view,
They wander through incredible to true:
Falfehoods thus mix'd, like metals are refin'd,
And truth, like filver, leaves the drofs behind.
Thus poetry has ample space to foar,
Nor needs forbidden regions to explore:
Such vaunts as his, who can with patience read,
Who thus defcribes his hero flain and dead:
(4) "Kill'd as he was, infenfible of death,

"He ftill fights on, and fcorns to yield his
"breath."

The noify culverin o'ercharg'd, lets fly,

ESSAY

UPON UNNATURAL FLIGHTS IN POETRY.

As when fome image of a charming face
In living paint, an artist tries to trace,
He carefully confults cach beauteous line,
Adjufling to his object, his defign,

Such frantic flights are like a madman's dream,
And nature fuffers in the wild extreme.

The captive Canibal weigh'd down with chains,
Yet braves his foes, reviles, provokes, difdains,
Of nature fierce, untameable, and proud,
He grins defiance at the gaping crowd,
And spent at last, and speechlefs as he lics,
With looks ftill threatning, mocks their rage, and

Il Ariosto,

[dics,