Raife thence, their future joy, a smiling heir,

Brave as the father, as the mother fair.

Well may'st thou shower thy choicest gifts on those,
Who boldly rival thy most hated foes;
The vigorous bridegroom with Alcides vies,
And the fair bride has Cytherea's eyes.

TO A LADY;

WITH A PRESENT OF FLOWERS.

"HE fragrant painting of our flowery fields, The choiceft ftores that youthful fummer yields,

Strephon to fair Elisa hath convey'd,

The sweetest garland to the sweetest maid.

O cheer the flowers, my fair, and let them reft
On the Elyfium of thy fnowy breast,

And there regale the finell, and charm the view,
With richer odours, and a lovelier hue.

Learn hence, nor fear a flatterer in the flower,
Thy form divine, and beauty's matchless power:
Faint, near the cheeks, the bright carnation glows,
And thy ripe lips out-blufh the opening rofe:
The lily's fnow betrays lefs pure a light,
Loft in thy bofom's more unfullied white;
And wreaths of jafmine fhed perfumes, beneath
Th' ambrofial incenfe of thy balmy breath.

Ten thousand beauties grace the rival pair,
How fair the chaplet, and the nymph how fair!
But ah! too foon these fleeting charms decay,
The fading luftre of one hastening day.

This

This night fhall see the gaudy wreath decline,
The roses wither, and the lilies pine.

The garlands fate to thine shall be apply'd,
And what advance thy form, fhall check thy pride:
Be wife, my fair, the present hour improve,
Let joy be now, and now a waste of love;

Each drooping bloom shall plead thy juft excuse,
And that which shew'd thy beauty, fhew its ufe.

A

ON A LADY'S PICTURE:
TO GILFRED LAWSON, ESQ;

S Damon Chloe's painted form furvey'd,

He figh'd, and languish'd for the jilting shade:

For Cupid taught the artist hand its grace,
And Venus wanton'd in the mimic face.

Now he laments a look fo falfely fair,
And almoft damns, what yet resembles her;
Now he devours it, with his longing eyes;
Now fated, from the lovely phantom flies,
Yet burns to look again, yet looks again, and dies.
Her ivory neck his lips prefume to kiss,

And his bold hands the fwelling bofom prefs;
The swain drinks-in deep draughts of vain defire,
Melts without heat, and burns in fancy'd fire.
Strange power of paint! thou nice creator art!
What love infpires, may life itself impart.
Struck with like wounds, of old, Pygmalion pray'd,
And hugg'd to life his artificial maid;

}

Clafp

N

Clafp, new Pygmalion, clasp the feeming charms,
Perhaps ev'n now th' enlivening image warms,
Deftin'd to crown thy joys, and revel in thy arms:
Thy arms, which shall with fire fo fierce invade,
That she at once fhall be, and cease to be a maid.

}

PART OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF LUCAN.

Cæfar, having refolved to give battle to Petreius and Afranius, Pompey's lieutenants in Spain, encamped near the enemy in the fame field. The behaviour of their foldiers, at their feeing and knowing one another, is the subject of the following verses.

HEIR ancient friends, as now they nearer drew,

THEIR

Prepar'd for fight the wondering foldiers knew ;

Brother, with brother in unnatural ftrife,

And the fon arm'd against the father's life:
Curft civil war! then confcience firft was felt,
And the tough veteran's heart began to melt.
Fix'd in dumb forrow all at once they stand,
Then wave, a pledge of peace, the guiltlefs hand;
To vent ten thoufand ftruggling paffions move,
The ftings of nature, and the pangs of love.
All order broken, wide their arins they throw,
And run, with transport, to the longing foe:
Here the long-loft acquaintance neighbours claim,
There an old friend recalls his comrade's name,

Youths,

Youths, who in arts beneath one tutor grew,
Rome rent in twain, and kindred hofts they view.
Tears wet their impious arms, a fond relief,
And kiffes, broke by fobs, the words of grief;
Though yet no blood was spilt, each anxious mind
With horror thinks on what his rage defign'd.
Ah! generous youths, why thus, with fruitless pain,
Beat ye those breafts? why gufh thofe eyes in vain?
Why blame ye heaven, and charge your guilt on fate?
Why dread the tyrant, whom yourselves make great ?
Bids he the trumpet found? the trumpet flight.
Bids he the standards move? refuse the fight.
Your generals, left by you, will love again
A fon and father, when they're private men.

Kind Concord, heavenly born! whose blissful reign
Holds this vaft globe in one furrounding chain,
Whofe laws the jarring elements control,
And knit each atom close from pole to pole;
Soul of the world! and love's eternal spring!
This lucky hour, thy aid fair goddess bring!
This lucky hour, ere aggravated crimes
Heap guilt on guilt, and doubly ftain the times.
No veil henceforth for fin, for pardon none;

They know their duty, now their friends are known. Vain with! from blood fhort muft the refpite be,

}

New crimes, by love inhanc'd, this night fhall fee:
Such is the will of fate, and fuch the hard decree.
'Twas peace. From either camp, now void of fear,
The foldiers mingling chearful feasts prepare:

4

On

On the green fod the friendly bowls were crown'd,
And hafty banquets pil'd upon the ground:

Around the fire they talk; one fhews his scars,
One tells what chance first led him to the wars;
Their ftories o'er the tedious night prevail,

And the mute circle liftens to the tale;

They own they fought, but fwear they ne'er could hates
Deny their guilt, and lay the blame on fate;
Their love revives, to make them guiltier grow,
A fhort-liv'd bleffing, but to heighten woe.
When to Petreius firft the news was told,
The jealous general thought his legions fold.
Swift with the guards, his head-ftrong fury drew,
From out his camp he drives the hostile crew;
Cuts clafping friends afunder with his fword,
And ftains with blood each hofpitable board.

Then thus his wrath breaks out. Oh! loft to fame!
Oh! false to Pompey, and the Roman name!

Can ye not conquer, ye degenerate bands?
Oh! die at leaft; 'tis all that Rome demands.
What will ye own, while ye can wield the fword,
A rebel standard, and ufurping lord?
Shall he be fued to take you into place

Amongst his flaves, and grant you equal grace?
• What? fhall my life be begg'd? inglorious thought!
And life abhorr'd, on fuch conditions bought!
The toils we bear, my friends, are not for life,
Too mean a prize in fuch a dreadful ftrife;

• But peace would lead to servitude and shame, A fair amufement, and a fpecious name.