[P. WHITEHEAD.] As Granville's soft numbers tune Myra's just praise, And Chloe shines lovely in Prior's sweet lays : So, would Daphne but smile, their example I'd follow, And, as she looks like Venus, I'd sing like Apollo: But alas! while no smiles from the fair one in spire, [lyre! How languid my strains, and how tuneless my Go, zephyrs, salute in soft accents her ear, For sure, oh ye winds, ye may tell her my pain, 'Tis Strephon's to suffer, but not to complain. Wherever I go, or whatever I do, Still something presents the fair nymph to my view: But with her neither lily nor rose can compare; If, to vent my fond anguish, I steal to the grove, The spring there presents the fresh bloom of my The nightingale too with impertinent noise, [love; Pours forth her sweet strains in my Syren's sweet voice : [brings; Thus the grove and its music her image still For like spring she looks fair, like the nightingale sings. If forsaking the groves, I fly to the court, eye; Some glimpse of my fair in each charmer I spy, In Richmond's fair form, or in Brudenel's bright [appear? But, alas! what would Brudenel or Richmond Unheeded they'd pass, were my Daphne but there. If to books I retire, to drown my fond pain, THE IVY. [WAY, translator of the Fabliaux.] How yonder ivy courts the oak, And clips it with a false embrace! So I abide a wanton's yoke, And yield me to a smiling face. And both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. How fain the tree would swell its rind! A lass, forlorn for lack of grace, This pity did engender love. And now my death must prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. For now she rules me with her look, But, had the oak denied its shade, Might still have pin'd in want and woe: Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. [MOORE.] WHEN Damon languish'd at my feet, And I beheld him true, The moments of delight how sweet! But ah! how swift they flew ! The sunny hill, the flow'ry vale, The garden and the grove ~ Have echoed to his ardent tale, And vows of endless love. The conquest gain'd, he left his prize, To talk of joy with weeping eyes, But heaven will take the mourner's part In pity to despair; And the last sigh that rends the heart FROM anxious zeal and factious strife, Where Philomel in mournful strains Retir'd I pass the livelong day, |