Ah! should I lose thee, my too lovely maid, Not one kind word shall in my power remain, A PRAYER TO VENUS. IN HER TEMPLE AT STOW. TO THE SAME. FAIR Venus, whose delightful shrine surveys If less my love exceeds all other love, Than Lucy's charms all other charms excel, Far from my breast each soothing hope remove, And there let sad Despair for ever dwell. But if my soul is fill'd with her alone; No other wish nor other object knows : Oh! make her, goddess, make her all my own, And give my trembling heart secure repose! No watchful spies I ask, to guard her charms, No walls of brass, no steel-defended door: Place her but once within my circling arms, Love's surest fort, and I will doubt no more. TO THE SAME. YOUR shape, your lips, your eyes, are still the same, TO THE SAME. WHEN I think on your truth, I doubt you no more, 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 suspicions you cannot remove, Since you neither can lessen your charms nor my love; But doubts caus'd by passion you never can blame; For they are not ill founded, or you feel the same. Is it glad Summer's balmy breath, that blows Oft have I met her on the verdant side No sweeter fragrance now the gardens yield, Is it to Love these new delights I owe? Here first my Lucy, sweet in virgin charms, While Venus scatter'd myrtles o'er her head. Whence then this strange 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. TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME LADY. A MONODY. A. D. 1747. Ipse cavà solans ægrum testudine amorem, Te dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum, Te veniente die, te decedente canebat. Ar length escap'd from every human eye,、 That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills, Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice To hear her heavenly voice; For her despising, when she deign'd to sing, And every shepherd's flute Again thy plaintive story tell; For Death has stopt that tuneful tongue, Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel In vain I look around O'er all the well-known ground, My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry ; Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer Sun go down the sky; Nor where its waters glide Along the valley, can she now be found: In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound No more my mournful eye Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast? Your bright inhabitant is lost. You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts Where female vanity might wish to shine, The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts. Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye: To your sequester'd dales And flower embroider'd vales From an admiring world she chose to fly: And made each charm of polish'd courts agree And uncorrupted Innocence ! She join'd the softening influence Of more than female tenderness: How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and joy, Which oft the care of others' good destroy, And all relief that bounty could bestow! Her gentle tears would fall, Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to all. Not only good and kind, But strong and elevated was her mind: On Fortune's smile or frown; Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize; All pleasing shone; nor ever past A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd, So, where the silent streams of Liris glide, The Mintio runs by Mantua, the birth place The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and of Virgil. The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of Propertius. The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where Horace had a villa. 4 The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, supposed to be born on its banks, is called Melisigenes. The Ilissus is a river at Athens. dies. Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bowers, Tun'd by thy skilful hand, To the soft notes of elegant desire, Was spread the fame of thy disastrous love; To me resign the vocal shell, And teach my sorrows to relate Their melancholy tale so well, As may ev'n things inanimate, Rough mountain oaks and desert rocks, to pity move. What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine? To thee thy mistress in the blissful band Of Hymen never gave her hand; The joys of wedded love were never thine: She never bore a share, Would heal thy wounded heart Of every secret grief that fester'd there: Nor did her fond affection on the bed Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain, And charm away the sense of pain: Nor did she crown your mutual flame With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name. Unjustly for thy partial good detain? That heavenly radiance of eternal light, Is every mortal bliss; Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees Rise then, my soul, with hope elate, ON THE SAME LADY. Memory of Lucy Lyttelton, Daughter of Hugh Fortescue of Filleigh The daughter of Matthew lord Aylmer, Who departed this life the 19th of Jan. 1746-7, Aged twenty-nine, Having employed the short time assigned to In the uniform practice of religion and virtue. Made to engage all hearts, and charm all eyes; When balmy breezes fann'd the vernal sky, / Then, darting with impetuous fury down, The flocks he slaughter'd, an unpractis'd foe; Now his ripe valour to perfection grown The scaly snake and crested dragon know: Or, as a lion's youthful progeny, Wean'd from his savage dam and milky food, The gazing kid beholds with fearful eye, Doom'd first to stain his tender fangs in blood: Such Drusus, young in arms, his foes beheld, The Alpine Rhæti, long unmatch'd in fight: So were their hearts with abject terrour quell'd; So sunk their haughty spirit at the sight. Tam'd by a boy, the fierce barbarians find How guardian Prudence guides the youthful flame, And how great Cæsar's fond paternal mind Each generous Nero forms to early fame; A valiant son springs from a valiant sire : Degenerate to form the timorous dove. But education can the genius raise, And wise instructions native virtue aid; Nobility without them is disgrace, And honour is by vice to shame betray'd. Let red Metaurus, stain'd with Punic blood, Let mighty Asdrubal subdued, confess How much of empire and of fame is ow'd By thee, O Rome, to the Neronian race. Of this be witness that auspicious day, Which, after a long, black, tempestuous night, First smil'd on Latium with a milder ray, [light. And cheer'd our drooping hearts with dawning Since the dire African with wasteful ire Rode o'er the ravag'd towns of Italy; As through the pine-trees flies the raging fire, From this bright era, from this prosperous field, Raise her fall'n gods, and ruin'd shrines restore. Thus Hannibal at length despairing spoke : "Like stags to ravenous wolves an easy prey, Our feeble arms a valiant foe provoke, Whom to elude and 'scape were victory: "A dauntless nation, that from Trojan fires, Hostile Ausonia, to thy destin'd shore Her gods, her infant sons, and aged sires, Through angry seas and adverse tempests bore: "As on high Algidas the sturdy oak, Whose spreading boughs the axe's sharpness feel, Improves by loss, and, thriving with the stroke, Draws health and vigour from the wounding steel. to Jupiter by an eagle, according to the Poetical History. "Not Hydra sprouting from her mangled head So tir'd the baffled force of Hercules; Nor Thebes, nor Colchis, such a monster bred, Pregnant of hills, and fam'd for prodigies. "Plunge her in ocean, like the morning Sun, Brighter she rises from the depths below: To earth with unavailing ruin thrown, Recruits her strength, and foils the wondering foe. "No more of victory the joyful fame Shall from my camp to haughty Carthage fly; Lost, lost, are all the glories of her name! With Asdrubal her hopes and fortune die! "What shall the Claudian valour not perform Which Power Divine guards with propitious care, Which Wisdom steers through all the dangerous storm, [war?" Through all the rocks and shoals of doubtful VIRTUE AND FAME. TO THE COUNTESS OF EGREMONT. VIRTUE and Fame, the other day, Well," answer'd Virtue, "Lallow I know the best of wives and mothers; Fame smil'd and answer'd, "On my life, This is some country parson's wife, Who never saw the court nor town, Whose face is homely as her gown; Who banquets upon eggs and bacon-" "No, madam, no-you're much mistakenI beg you'll let me set you right— Tis one with every beauty bright; Adorn'd with every polish'd art That rank or fortune can impart : 'Tis the most celebrated toast That Britain's spacious isle can boast; 'Tis princely Petworth's noble dame; 'Tis Egremont-Go, tell it, Fame." |