Have wisely from those envy'd heights declin'd, ON THE LAST JUDGMENT, AND THE HAPPINESS OF THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN. In that bless'd day, from every part, the just, Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain, Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy false-one inclines to a swain, Whose music 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. Though through 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, Is to shade me with cypress and yew; And deck her in golden array, Be finest at every fine show, And frolic 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." COLIN'S COMPLAINT. A SONG, TO THE TUNE OF "GRIM King of the GHOSTS." DESPAIRING beside a clear stream, A shepherd forsaken was laid; And while a false nymph was his theme, To his sighs with a sigh did reply; "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. 1 listen'd, and cry'd, when she sung, Was nightingale ever so sweet? "How foolish was I to believe She could doat on so lowly a clown, "What though I have skill to complain, REPLY, BY ANOTHER HAND. YE winds, to whom Colin complains, In ditties so sad and so sweet, Believe me, the shepherd but feigns He's wretched to show he has wit. No charmer like Colin can move, And this is some pretty new art; Ah! Colin's a juggler in love, And likes to play tricks with my heart, When he will, he can sigh and look pale, Ah! Colin has every pace: The willow my rover prefers To the breast, where he once beg'd to lie, And the stream, that he swells with his tears, Are rivals belov'd more than 1. His head my fond bosom would bear, And my heart would soon beat him to rest; Let the swain that is slighted despair, But Colin is only in jest ; No death the deceiver designs, Let the maid that is ruin'd despair; For Colin but dies in his lines, And gives himself that modish air. Can shepherds, bred far from the court, Beware of so fatal a game; A face that is fairer than mine. SONG ON A FINE WOMAN WHO HAD A DULL HUSBAND. 475 Ah! then I will break my lov'd crook, To thee I'll bequeath all my sheep, And die in the much-favour'd brook, Where Colin does now sit and weep: Then mourn the sad fate that you gave, In sonnets so smooth and divine; Perhaps, I may rise from my grave, To hear such soft music as thine. Of the violet, daisy, and rose, The heart's-ease, the lily, and pink, Did thy fingers a garland compose, And crown'd by the rivulet's brink; How oft, my dear swain, did I swear, How much my fond love did admire Thy verses, thy shape, and thy air, Though deck'd in thy rural attire! Your sheep-hook you rul'd with such art, That all your small subjects obey'd; And still you reign'd king of this heart, Whose passion you falsely upbraid; How often, my swain, have I said, Thy arms are a palace to me, And how well I could live in a shade, Though adorned with nothing but thee! Oh! what are the sparks of the town, Though never so fine and so gay? I freely would leave beds of down, For thy breast on a bed of new hay: Then, Colin, return once again, Again make me happy in love, Let me find thee a faithful true swain, And as constant a nymph I will prove. MECENAS. VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE HONOURS CONFER- PHOEBUS and Cæsar once conspir'd to grace The god of wit, who taught him first to sing, And tune high numbers to the vocal string, With jealous eyes beheld the bounteous king. "Forbear," he cry'd, " to rob me of my share; Our common favourite is our common care. Honours and wealth thy grateful hand may give; But Phoebus only bids the poet live. The service of his faithful heart is thine; There let thy Julian star an emblem shine; His mind, and her imperial seat are mine. Then bind his brow ye Thespian maids," he said: The willing Muses the command obey'd, And wove the deathless laurel for his head. EPIGRAM. ON THE PRINCE OF WALES's, then rEGENT, APPEARING AT THE FIRE IN SPRING-GARDEN, 1726. THY guardian, blest Britannia, scorns to sleep, SONG ON A FINE WOMAN WHO HAD A DULL HUSBAND. WHEN on fair Celia's eyes I gaze, And bless their light divine; I stand confounded with amaze, On one vile clod of earth she seems Which kindles not at those bright beams, Lost and bewilder'd with the thought, That Nature's lavish hand had wrought Thus some, who have the stars survey'd, Are ignorantly led, To think those glorious lamps were made To light Tom-fool to bed. OCCASIONED BY HIS FIRST VISIT TO LADY WARWICK, AT HOLLAND HOUSE. HEARING that Chloe's bower crown'd I went, and found 'twas as they said, That every thing look'd fresh and fair; Her herds in flowery pastures stray'd, Delightful was the green-wood shade, And gently breath'd the balmy air. Uneasy grown within my breast, Which pain'd me sore and broke my rest: "Some noxious vapour sure," I said, From this unwholesome soil must rise; Some secret venom is convey'd Or from this field, or from that shade, Soon as the skilful Leach beheld The change that in my health was grown: "Blame not," he cry'd," nor wood nor field; Diseases which such symptoms yield, Proceed from Chloe's eyes alone. "Alike she kills in every air, The coldest breast her beauties warm; The place had never done you harm." STANZAS TO LADY WARWICK. ON MR. ADDISON'S GOING TO IRELAND. YE gods and Nereid nymphs who rule the sea! Who chain loud storms, and still the raging main! With care the gentle Lycidas convey, And bring the faithful lover safe again. When Albion's shore with cheerless heart he left, Pensive and sad upon the deck he stood, Of every joy in Chloe's eyes bereft, And wept his sorrows in the swelling flood. Ah, fairest maid! whom, as I well divine, The righteous gods his just reward ordain; For his return thy pious wishes join, That thou at length may'st pay him for his pain. And since his love does thine alone pursue, And shun thy sex's inclination, change. When crowds of youthful lovers round thee wait, And tender thoughts in sweetest words impart; When thou art woo'd by titles, wealth, and state, Then think on Lycidas, and guard thy heart. When the gay theatre shall charm thy eyes, When artful wit shall speak thy beauty's praise; When harmony shall thy soft soul surprise, Sooth all thy senses, and thy passions raise: Amidst whatever various joys appear, Yet breathe one sigh, for one sad minute mura; Nor let thy heart know one delight sincere, Till thy own truest Lycidas return. THE VISIT. Wir and beauty t' other day, THE CONTENTED SHEPHERD. TO MRS. A D As on a summer's day In the greenwood shade I lay, And as she passed by With a scornful glance of her eye, "And dost thou nothing heed, What Pan our god has decreed; What a prize to day Shall be given away, "There's not a single swain Of all this fruitful plain, But with hopes and fears "Shall another maiden shine In brighter array than thine? Up, up, dull swain, Tune thy pipe once again, And make the garland mine." "Alas! my love," he cry'd, "What avails this courtly pride? Since thy dear de sert Is written in my heart What is all the world beside? "To me thou art more gay, Than the nymphs of our green, "What though my fortune frown, And deny thee a silken gown; 1 Afterwards the celebrated lady Harvey 2 Afterwards his wife. My own dear maid, Be content with this shade, And a shepherd all thy own." SONG. AH WILLOW. TO THE SAME IN HER SICKNESS. To the brook and the willow that heard him com- Sweet stream, he cry'd sadly, I'll teach thee to flow. And the waters shall rise to the brink with my woe. Ah willow, &c. All restless and painful poor Amoret lies, Ah willow, &c. And counts the sad moments of time as it flies. Ah willow, &c. To the nymph my heart loves, ye soft slumbers Ah willow, &c. [repair; Spread your downy wings o'er her, and make her Ah willow, &c. [your care. Dear brook, were thy chance near her pillow to Ah willow, &c. [creep, Perhaps thy soft murmurs might lull her to sleep. Let me be kept waking, my eyes never close, So the sleep that I lose brings my fair one repose, But if I am doom'd to be wretched indeed; Ah willow, &c. If the loss of my dear-one, my love is decreed; Ah willow, &c. If no more my sad heart by those eyes shall be Ah willow, &c. [cheer'd; If the voice of my warbler no more shall be heard; Ah willow, &c. Believe me, thou fair-one; thou dear-one believe, Few sighs to thy loss, and few tears will I give. One fate to thy Colin and thee shall be ty'd, And soon lay thy shepherd close by thy cold side. Then run, gentle brook; and to lose thyself, haste; Ah willow, willow. Fade thou too, my willow, this verse is my last; Ah willow, willow; ah willow, willow. TO THE SAME SINGING, WHAT charms in melody are found To soften every pain! How do we catch the pleasing sound, And feel the soothing strain! Still when I hear thee, O my fair, SONG. THE FAIR INCONSTANT. HE. SINCE I have long lov'd you in vain, Still I resolv'd against being wise, And lov'd you in spite of your changing. SHE. Why should you blame what heaven has made, Or find any fault in creation? 'Tis not the crime of the faithless maid, 'Tis not because I love you less, TO LORD WARWICK ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. WHEN, fraught with all that grateful minds can move, With friendship, tenderness, respect, and love; Why dost thou ask what has not been deny'd? I will prolong the favourite Warwick's fate,[date." And lengthen out his years to some uncommon With two fair lamps methought your nations shone, Such is their day, but cheerless is their night, TO MRS. PULTENEY, TIR'D with the frequent mischiefs of her eyes, ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1716. HAIL to thee, glorious rising Year, With what uncommon grace thy days appear! Crowd about the speaking strings; Ye scowling shades who break away, Black and sullen as a storm, And bold Rebellion hides her daring head. To whom thy treasures all thou shalt unfold, Every good is in his face, Every open honest grace. Thou great Plantagenet; immortal be thy race! See the glad promise of a line of kings! Bold in thy brave paternal band, beheld, To thy stronger fate gave way, Swift as the fleeting shades upon the golden corn What valour, what distinguish'd worth, Beyoud the reach of deep prophetic view, Patrons of righteous rules, and foes to tyranny. Ye golden lights who shine on high, Short and easy be the pains, Which for a nation's weal the heroine sustains. Britannia's angel, be thou near The growing race is thy peculiar care, To the long expected shore: Thy celestial armed hand, (play'd The blended cross on high thy silver shield dis But, oh! what other form divine Propitious near the hero seems to shine! Peace of mind, and joy serene, In her sacred eyes are seen, Honour binds her mitred brow, Faith and truth beside her go, With zeal and pure devotion bending low. A thousand storms around her threat, A thousand billows roar beneath her feet, While, fix'd upon a rock, she keeps her stable seat. Still in sign of sure defence, Trust and mutual confidence, |