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It chanc'd one evening, 't was the lover's day,
Conceal'd in brakes the jealous kindred lay;
When Hefiod, wandering, mus'd along the plain,
And fix'd his feat where love had fix'd the scene;
A ftrong fufpicion ftrait poffefs their mind
(For Poets ever were a gentle kind),
But when Evanthe near the passage stood,
Flung back a doubtful look, and shot the wood,
"Now take (at once they cry) thy due reward.”
And, urg'd with erring rage, affault the Bard.
His corpfe the fea receiv'd. The dolphins bore
(Twas all the Gods would do) the corpfe to shore.
Methinks I view the dead with pitying eyes,
And see the dreams of ancient wisdom rise;
I fee the Mufes round the body cry,
But hear a Cupid loudly laughing by;
He wheels his arrow with infulting hand,
And thus infcribes the moral on the fand.
"Here Hefiod lies: ye future Bards, beware
"How far your moral tales incense the Fair.
"Unlov'd, unloving, 't was his fate to bleed;
"Without his quiver, Cupid caus'd the deed:
"He judg'd this turn of malice justly due,
"And Hefiod dy'd for joys he never knew."
WHEN thy beauty appears
In its graces and airs,
All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky;
At distance I gaze, and am aw'd by my fears,
So ftrangely you dazzle
Your kind thought you impart,
When your love runs in blushes through every vein; When it darts from your eyes, when it pants
Then I know you're a woman again.
There's a paffion and pride
In our fex, fhe reply'd,
And thus, might I gratify both, I would do:
Still an angel appear to each lover befide,
But ftill be a woman to you.
THYRSIS, a young and amorous fwain,
Saw two, the beauties of the plain,
Who both his heart fubdue:
Gay Cælia's eyes were dazzling fair,
Sabina's easy shape and air
With fofter magic drew.
He haunts the stream, he haunts the grove,
Lives in a fond romance of love,
And feems for each to die;
Till, each a little spiteful grown,
Sabina Cælia's shape ran down,
And the Sabina's eye.
Their envy made the fhepherd find
Those eyes which love could only blind;
So fet the lover free:
No more he haunts the grove or ftream,
Or with a true-love knot and name
Engraves a wounded tree.
Ah, Cælia! fly Sabina cry'd,
Though neither love, we're both deny'd;
Now to fupport the fex's pride,
Let either fix the dart.
Poor girl, fays Cælia, fay no more;
For fhould the fwain but one adore,
That fpite, which broke his chains before,
Would break the other's heart.
Y days have been fo wondrous free,
The little birds, that fly
With careless case from tree to tree,
Were but as blefs'd as I.
Ask gliding waters, if a tear
Of mine increas'd their stream?
Or afk the flying gales, if e'er
I lent one figh to them?
But now my former days retire,
And I'm by beauty caught,
The tender chains of fweet defire
Are fix'd upon my thought.
Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines!
Ye fwains that haunt the grove!
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds!
Ye clofe retreats of love!
With all of nature, all of art,
Affift the dear defign;
O teach a young, unpractis'd heart,
To make my Nancy mine.
The very thought of change I hate,
As much as of despair;
Nor ever covet to be great,
Unless it bé for her.
'Tis true, the paffion in my mind
Is mix'd with foft diftrefs;
Yet, while the fair I love is kind,
I cannot wish it lefs.
WHEN fpring came on with fresh delight,
To cheer the foul, and charm the fight,
While eafy breezes, softer rain,
And warmer funs, falute the plain ;
'T was then, in yonder piny grove,
That Nature went to meet with Love.
Green was her robe, and green her wreath,
Where-e'er fhe trod, 't was green beneath;
Where-e'er the turn'd, the pulfes beat
With new recruits of génial heat;
And in her train the birds appear,
To match for all the coming year.
Rais'd on a bank where daifies grew,
And violets intermix'd a blue,
She finds the boy fhe went to find;
A thousand pleasures wait behind,
Afide, a thousand arrows lie,
But all unfeather'd, wait to fly.
When they met, the dame and boy,
Dancing Graces, idle joy,
Wanton fmiles, and airy play
Confpir'd to make the fcene be gay;
Love pair'd the birds through all the grove,
And Nature bid them fing to Love,
Sitting, hopping, fluttering, fing,
And pay their tribute from the wing,
To fledge the fhafts that idly lie,
And yet unfeather'd wait to fly.
'Tis thus, when fpring renews the blood,
They meet in every trembling wood,
And thrice they make the plumes agree,
And every dart they mount with three,
And every dart can boast a kind,
Which fuits, each proper turn of mind.