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To each I give. A mizzling mist descends
Adown that steepy rock : and this way tends
Yon distant rain. Shoreward the vessels strive;
And, see, the boys their flocks to shelter drive.
CEASE your music, gentle swains :
Drilia cross the plains ?
Every thicket, every grove,
Have I rang'd, to find iny
love: A kid, a lamb, my flock, I give, Tell me only, doth she live ?
White her skin as mountain-snow;
In her cheek the roses blow :
And her eye is brighter far
Than the beamy morning star,
When her ruddy lip ye view,
'Tis a berry moist with dew:
And her breath, oli, 'tis a gake
Paffing o'er a fragrant vale,
Pasling, when a friendly shower
Freibens every herb and flower.
Wide her bosom opens, gay
As the primrose-dell in May,
Sweet as violet-borders growing
Over fountains ever-
r-flowing. Like the tendrils of the vine, Do her auburn treffes twine,
Glofly ringlets all behind
Streaming buxom to the wind,
When along the lawn she bounds,
Light, as hind before the hounds:..
And the youthful ring the fires,
Hopeless in their fond desires,
As her fitting feet advance,
Wanton in the winding dance.
Tell me, thepherds, have ye feen
My delight, my love, may queen?
AV E ye seen the morning sky,
When the dawn prevails on high,
When, anon, fome purply ray
Gives a sample of the day,
When, anon, the lark, on wing,
Strives to soar, and strains to sing ?
Have ye seen th' ethereal blue
Gently shedding silvery dew,
Spangling o'er the filent green,
While the nightingale, unseen,
To the moon and stars, full bright,
Lonesoine chants the hymn of night?
seen the broider'd May
All her scented bloom display,
Breezes opening, every hour,
This, and that, expecting flower,
While the mingling birds prolong,
From each Luth, the vernal song ?
seen the damask-rose
Her unfully'd blush disclose,
Or the lily's dewy bell,
In her glossy white, excell,
Or a garden vary'd o'er
With a thousand glories more?
By the beauties these display,
Morning, evening, night, or day,
By the pleasures these excite,
Endless source of delight!
Judge, by them, the joys I find,
Since my Rosalind was kind,
Since she did herself resign
To my vows, for ever inine,
April 20, 1702.
TRU3T me, dear George, could I in verse but show
What forrow I, what sorrow all men, owe
To Nafíau's fate, or could I hope to raise
A fong proportion'd to the monarch's praise,
Could I his merits, or my grief, express,
And proper thoughts in proper language dress,
Unbidden should my pious numbers flow,
The tribute of a heart o'ercharg'd with woe;
But, ratlier than prophane his sacred hearse
With languid praises, and unhallow'd verse,
My fighs I to myself in silence keep,
And inwardly, with secret anguish, weep.
Let Halifax's Muse (he knew him well)
His virtues to succeeding ages tell.
Let him, who sung the warrior on the Boyne,
(Provoking Dorfet in the talk to join)
And shew'd the hero more than man before,
Let him th' illustrious mortal's fate deplore ;
A mournful theme: while, on raw pinions, I
But flutter, and make weak attempts to fly:
Content, if, to divert my vacant time,
I can but like some love-sick fopling rhyme,
To some kind-hearted mistress make my court,
And, like a modish wit, in fonnet sport.
24 Let others, more ambitious, rack their brains In polish'd sentiments, and labour'd strains :
To blooming Phyllis I a fong compose,
And, for a rhyme, compare her to the rose; 28
Then, while my fancy works, I write down morn,
To paint the blush that does her cheek adorn,
And, when the whiteness of her skin I show,
With ecstasy bethink myself of snow.
32 Thus, without pains, I tinkle in the close, And sweeten into verse insipid prose.
The country scraper, when he wakes his crowd,
And makes the tortur'd cat-gut fqueak aloud,
Is often ravith'd, and in transport loft:
What more, my friend, can fam’d Corelli boast,
When harmony herself from heaven descends,
And on the artist's moving bow attends ?
Why then, in making verles, should I strain
For wit, and of Apollo beg a vein ?
Who study Horace and the Stagyrite ?
Why cramp my dulness, and in torment write ?
Let me transgress by nature, not by rule,
An artless idiot, not a study'd fool,
A Withers, not a Rymer, since I aim
At nothing less, in writing, than a name.