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Ah, rivals! I see what it was that you dress'd,
And made yourselves fine for; a place in her breast:
You put on your colours to pleasure her eye,
To be pluck'd by her hand, on her bosom to die.

How slowly time creeps, till my Phæbe return !
While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn';
Methinks, if I knew whereabout he would tread,
I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down

the lead.
Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear,
And rest so much longer for 't, when she is here.
Ah, Colin ! old Time is full of delay,
Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say.

Will no pitying power that hears me complain,
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain ?
To be cur’d, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove :
But what swain is so silly to live without love?
No, Deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was pour shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair !
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye love one so fair.

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[LOGAN.)

The day is departed, and round from the cloud,

The moon in her beauty appears;
The voice of the nightingale warbles aloud,

The music of love in our ears :
Maria, appear! now the season so sweet

With the beat of the heart is in tune;
The time is so tender for lovers to meet

Alone by the light of the moon.

I cannot when present unfold what I feel

I sigh-can a lover do more?
Her name to the shepherds I never reveal,

Yet I think of her all the day o'er.
Maria, my love ! do you long for the grove?

Do you sigh for our interview soon!
Does e'er a kind thought run on me as you rove ?

Alone by the light of the moon?

Your name from the shepherds whenever I hear,

My bosom is all in a glow;
Your voice when it vibrates so sweet through my ear

My heart thrills—my eyes overflow.
Ye powers of the sky, will your bounty divine

Indulge a fond lover his boon?
Shall heart spring to heart, and Maria be mine

Alone by the light of the moon?

We all to conquering beauty bow,

Its pleasing pow'r admire ; But I ne'er saw a face till now

That could like your's inspire:
Now I
may say

I've met with one
Amazes all mankind :
And, like men gazing on the sun,

With too much light am blind.

Soft, as the tender moving sighs,

When longing lovers meet : Like the divining prophets, wise;

Like new-blown roses, sweet : Modest, yet gay; reserv'd, yet free;

Each happy night a bride ; A mien like awful majesty,

And yet no spark of pride.

The patriarch, to gain a wife,

Chaste, beautiful, and young,
Serv'd fourteen years a painful life,

And never thought it long :
Ah! were you to reward such cares,

And life so long could stay,
Not fourteen but four hundred years,

Would seem but as one day,

۔

T

[E. MOORE.]

How blest has my time been, what days have I

known Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jesse my own! So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, That freedom is tasteless, and roving à pain.

Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we

stray,
Around us our boys and girls frolic and play;
How pleasing their sport is the wanton ones see,
And borrow their looks from my Jesse and me.

To try her sweet temper sometimes am I seen
In revels all day with the nymphs of the green ;
Though painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles,
And meets me at night with compliance and smiles.

What though on her cheek the rose loses its hue, Her ease and good humour bloom all the year

through ; Time still as he flies brings encrease to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her

youth,

Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare,
And cheat with false vows the too credulous fair,
In search of true pleasure how vainly you roam

! To hold it for life, you must find it at home,

1

[MASON.]

W.

HEN first I dar'd by soft surprise
To breathe my love in Flavia's ear,
I saw the mixt sensations rise

Of trembling joy, and pleasing fear :
Her cheek forgot its rosy hue,
For what has art with love to do?

/

But soon the crimson glow return'd,

Ere half my passion was express'd,
The eye that clos'd, the cheek that burn'd

The quivering lip, the panting breast
Shew'd that she wish'd or thought me true,
For what has art with love to do?

Ah! speak, I cried, thy soft assent:

She strove to speak, she could but sigh;
A glance, more leav'nly eloquent,

Left language nothing to supply.
She press'd my hand with fervour new;
For what has art with love to do?

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