Oh! my rapt foul, fits trembling in my eyes,
Starting, impatient, at her pow'rful name :
Dearer, than life, to that sweet found it flies,
And health rides rofy, on the living flame.

Wak'd into fudden strength, I blaze again,

Love, the restorer, drefs'd in Clio's fmile, Triumph'd o'er nature, gave delight to pain, Sweeten'd affliction, and could death beguile,

May joys un-number'd, as the charmer's sweets, Bless this revolving day's eternal round;

'Till the proud world its dawn, with rapture greets, Confcious of her, who made it firft renown'd.

Long--let 'em fay--long, e're our father's days,
Three thoufand
years ago, on this sweet day,
That Clio, whom contending nations praise,

Embloom'd, by her fweet birth, the first of
May.

Britain, illuftrious by the starry lot,

Far, in the north, distinguish'd island, lies, Now known by later names--oh, envy'd spot! Why did the not in our warm climates rise?

Sure,

Sure, he was heav'nly grac'd! for, to this hour, After fuch length of ages roll'd away!

Fame of her charms, augments her fex's pow'r, And her thought's luftre gives our wits their fway.

To a Lady, defiring her Letters might not be expofed.

N°!

O! thou best foul, that e'er this body
knew,

Unhappy I may be, but not untrue!
Bleft, or unbleft, my love can ne'er decay,
Nor could I, where I could not love, betray.
Cold, and unjust, the fhocking caution kills,
And, in one meaning, spots me o'er with ills.
Silent, as facred lamps, in bury'd urns,

The conscious flame of lovers inward burns: Life should be torn, and racks be stretch'd in vain, And vary'd tortures tire their fruitless pain, E're but a thought of mine fhou'd do thee wrong, Or fpread thy beauties on the public tongue.

YET,

YET, thou can't fear me --

Shame,

oh! be loft the

Nor heap dishonour on my future name!
Have I been never lov'd? -- yet, cruel, tell,
Whom I betray'd to thee, tho' lov'd fo well?
Take thy fweet mifchiefs back, their charms erafe,
Oh! leave me poor, but never think me base.
Not e'en, when death fhall veil thy starry eyes,
Shall thy dear letters, from my afbes, rife ;
Fix'd to my heart, the grave shall give 'em room
To charm my waking foul, in worlds to come.
While in my verse, with far more faint essay,
Thy wonders, I to after times convey; -
Tell thy vaft heav'n of fweets, and fing thy name,
'Till fir'd by thee, whole kingdoms catch thy flame.

Epitaph, on Sir ISAAC NEWTON.

MOR

ORE than his NAME were lefs. --'Twou'd feem, to fear,

He, who increas'd HEAV'N's fame, could want

it here.

Yet,

Yet, when the SUNS, be lighted up, fhall fade, And all the WORLDS, he found, are first decay'd; Then, void, and waste, ETERNITY shall lie,

And TIME, and NEWTON'S NAME, together die.

To Mr. DYER; on his attempting CLIO's

SOUL

Picture.

OUL of your honour'd art! what man
can do,

In copying nature, may be reach'd by you :
Your peopling pencil a new world can give,
And, like Deucalion, teach the ftones to live.
From your creating hand, a war may flow;
And your warm strokes, with breathing action,
glow:

But, from that angel form, to catch the grace,
And kindle up your ivory, with her face.
All, unconfum'd, to fnatch the living fire,
And limn th' ideas, which thofe eyes infpire;
Strong, to your burning circle, to confine
That awe-mix'd sweetness, and that air divine;
That sparkling foul, which lightens, from within!
And breaks, in unfpoke meanings, thro' her skin.

This

Then, fhall

you be adorn'd, as now belov'd.

Then, fhall your high-afpiring colours find

The art, to picture thought, and paint the wind.
Then, fhall
you give air SHAPE, imprison space,
And mount the painter to the maker's place.

WHITEHALL STAIRS.

FROM

ROM Whitehall Stairs, whence oft, with distant view,

I've gaz'd whole moon-fhine hours, on hours away, Bleft but to see those roofs, which cover'd you, And watch'd beneath what far, you sleeping, lay.

LAUNCH'D on the fmiling ftream, which felt my hope,

And danc'd, and quiver'd, round my gliding boat, I came, this day, to give my tongue free scope, And vent the paffion, which my looks denote.

To tell my dear, my foul-disturbing mufe, (But that's a name, can speak but half her charms) How my full heart does my pen's aid refuse, And bids my voice defcribe my foul's alarms.

To