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Born to command, yet turn’d to please,
Her form is dignity, with ease :
Then- such a hand, and such an arm,
As age or impotence might warm !
Just such a leg too, Zephir knows,
The Medicéan Venus shows !
So far he sees; so far admires.
Each charm is fewer to his fires :
But other charms, and those of price,
That form the bounds of Paradise,
Can those an equal praise command ;
All turn'd by Nature's finest hand?
Is all the confecrated ground
With plumpness, firm, with smoothness, round?
The world, but once, one Zeuxis saw,
A faultless form who dar'd to draw :
And then, that all might perfect be,
All rounded off in due degree,
To furnish out the matchless piece,
Were rifled half the toasts of Greece.
'Twas Pitt's white neck, 'twas Delia's thigh;
'Twas Waldegrave's sweetly-brilliant eye ;
'Twas gentle Pembroke's ease and grace,
And Hervey lent her maiden-face.
But dares he hope, on British ground,
That these may all, in one, be found ?
These chiefly that still shun his eye?
He knows not ; but he means to try.
Aurora rising, fresh and gay,
Gave promise of a golden day.
Up, with her Sister, Mira rose,
Four hours before our London beaux;
For these are still alleep and dead,
Save Arthur's fons-not yet in bed.
A rose, impearld with orient dew,
Had caught the passing fair-one's view;
To pluck the bud he saw her stoop,
And try'd, behind, to heave her hoop:
Then, while across the daisy'd lawn
She turn’d, to feed her milk-white fawn,
Due westward as her steps she bore,
Would swell her petticoat, before;
Would subtly steal his face between,
To see what never yet was seen!
6. And sure, to fan it with his wing,
« No nine-month symptom e'er can bring :
* His aim is but the Nymph to please,
6. Who daily courts his cooling breeze."
But liften, fond believing Maid !
When Love, soft traitor, would persuade,
With all the moving skill and grace
Of practis d passion in his face,
Dread his approach, distrust your power
For oh! there is one shepherd's hour:
And though he long, his aim to cover,
May, with the friend, disguise the lover,
The sense, or nonsense, of his wooing
Will but adore you into ruin.
But, for those butterflies, the beaux,
Who buzz around in tinsel-rows,
Shake, shake them off, with quick disdain :
Where infects settle, they will stain.
Thus, Zephir oft the Nymph affail'd.
As oft his little arts had fail'd :
The folds of filk, the ribs of whale,
Resisted still his feeble gale.
With these repulses vex'd at heart,
Poor Zephir has recourse to art:
And his own weakness to supply,
Calls in a Brotlier of the sky,
The rude South-West; whose mildest play
Is war, mere war, the Russian way:
A tempest-maker by his trade,
Who knows to ravish, not persuade.
The terms of their aërial league,
How first to harrass and fatigue,
Then, found on some remoter plain,
To ply her clofe with wind and rain;
These terms, writ fair and seald and sign’d,
Should Webb or Stukeley wish to find,
Wife antiquaries, who explore
All that has ever pass’d_and more;
Though here too tédious to be told,
Are yonder in some cloud enroll'd,
Those floating registers in air:
So let them mount, and lead them there.
The grand alliance thus agreed,
To instant action they proceed ;
For 'tis in war a maxim known,
As Prussia's monarch well has shown,
To break, at once, upon your foe,
And strike the first preventive blow.
With Toro's lungs, in Toro's form,
is a storm,
The dread South-Weft his part begun.
Thick clouds, extinguishing the sun,
At his command, from pole to pole
Dark-spreading, o'er the fair-one roll;
Who, presling now her favourite steed,
Adorn’d the pomp she deigns to lead.
O Mira! to the future blind,
Th’insidious foe is close behind :
Guard, guard your
you can ;
Unless this God should be the Man.
For lo! the clouds, at his known call,
Are closing round--they burft! they fall!
While at the Charmer, all-aghaft,
He pours whole winter in a blast :
Nor cares, in his impetuous mood,
If natives founder on the flood;
If Britain's coaft be left az bare *
As he refolves to leave the Fair.
Here, Gods resemble human breed;
The world be damn'd-fo thty succeed.
Pale, trembling, from her steed she fled,
With silk, lawn, linen, round her head;
And, to the fawns who fed above,
Unveil'd the last recess of love.
Each * The very day on which the feet under Admiral Hawke was blown into Torbay, MALLET.
Each wondering fawn was seen to bound*,
Each branchy deer o'erleap'd his mound,
A sight of that sequester'd glade,
In all its light, in all its shade,
Which rises there for wisest ends,
To deck the temple it defends.
Lo! ģentle tenants of the grove,
For what a thousand Heroes (trove,
When Europe, Asia, both in arms,
Disputed one fair Lady's charms.
The war pretended Helen's eyes ti
But this, believe it, was the prize.
This rouz'd Achilles' mortal ire,
This ftrung his Homer's epic lyre;
Gave to the world La Mancha's Knight,
And still makes bulls and heroes fight.
Yet, though the diftant conscious Muse
This airy rape delighted views ;
Yet she, for honour guides her lays,
Enjoying it, disdains to praise.
If Frenchmen always fight with odds,
Are they a pattern for the Gods ?
Can Russia, can th' Hungarian vampire I,
With whom cast in the Swedes and Empire,
Can four such powers, who one assail,
Deserve our praise, should they prevail ?
O mighty *“Immemor herbarum quos est mirata Juvenca." VIRGA +" Et fuit ante Helenam,” &c. Hor. I A certain mischievous demon that delights much in human blood ; of whom there are many itories told in Hungary