Engaging Cynthia 's arm'd with every grace; Her lovely mind fhines chearful through her face, A facred lamp in a fair crystal case.
Not Venus-star, the brightest of the sphere,
Smiles fo ferene, or cats a light so clear.
O happy brother of this wondrous fair!
The best of fifters well deferves thy care;
Her fighing lovers, who in crouds adore,
Would wish thy place, did they not wish for more.
What angels are, when we desire to know,
We form a thought by such as she below,
And thence conclude they're bright beyond compare,
Compos'd of all that's good, and all that's fair.
There yet remains unnam'd a dazzling throng
Of nymphs, who to thefe happy fhades belong.
O Venus! lovely queen of foft defires!
For ever dwell where fuch fupply thy fires!
May Virtue ftill with Beauty fhare the sway,
And the glad world with willing zeal obey !
'H' infpiring Mufes and the God of Love,
Which most should grace the fair Molinda ftreve Love arm'd her with his bow and keeneft darts,
The Mufes more enrich'd her mind with arts.
Though Greece in fhining temples heretofore
Did Venus and Minerva's powers adore,
The ancients thought no fingle goddess fit,
To reign at once o'er Beauty and o'er Wit;
Each was a separate claim; till now we find
The different titles in Molinda join'd.
From hence, when at the court, the park, the play,
She gilds the evening, or improves the day,
All eyes regard her with transporting fire,
One sex with envy burns, and one with fierce defire:
But when, withdrawn from public fhow and noise, 15
In filent works her fancy fhe employs,
A fmiling train of Arts around her stand,
And court improvement from her curious hand.
She, their bright patronefs, o'er all prefides,
And with like skill the pen and needle guides;
By this we fee gay filken landskips wrought,
By that the landskip of a beauteous thought:
Whether her voice in tuneful airs she moves,
Or cuts diffembled flowers and paper groves,
Her voice tranfports the ear with foft delight,
Her flowers and groves furprize the ravish'd fight;
Which ev'n to Nature's wonders we prefer;
All but that wonder Nature form'd in her.
A FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.
WHILST thou art happy in a bleft retreat,
And free from care doft rural songs repeat,
Whilft fragrant air fans thy poetic fire,
And pleafant groves with sprightly notes infpire,
(Groves, whofe receffes and refreshing shade
Indulge th' invention, and the judgment aid)
1, 'midst the finoke and clamours of the town,
That choke my Muse, and weigh my fancy down,
Pafs my unactive hours ;
In fuch an air, how can foft numbers flow,
Or in fuch foil the facred laurel grow?
All we can boaft of the poetic fire,
Are but fome sparks that foon as born expire.
Hail happy woods! harbours of peace and joy!
Where no black cares the mind's repose destroy!
Where grateful Silence unmolested reigns,
Affifts the Mufe, and quickens all her strains.
Such were the fcenes of our firft parents' love,
In Eden's groves with equal flames they strove,
While warbling birds, foft whispering breaths of
wind, And murmuring ftreams, to grace their nuptials join'd. All Nature fmil'd; the plains were fresh and green, Unftain'd the fountains, and the heavens ferene.
Ye bleft remains of that illustrious age! Delightful fprings and woods !
Might I with you my peaceful days live o’er,
You, and my friend, whose absence I deplore,
Calm as a gentle brook's unruffled tide
Should the delicious flowing minutes glide;
Discharg'd of care, on unfrequented plains,
We'd fing of rural joys in rural strains.
No falfe corrupt delights our thoughts should move,
But joys of friendship, poetry, and love.
While others fondly feed ambition's fire,
And to the top of human state aspire,
That from their airy eminence they may
With pride and scorn th' inferior world survey,
Here we should dwell obscure, yet happier far than
Integer vitæ, fcelerifque purus,
Non eget Mauri jaculis, reque arcu," &c.
Wrapp'd in thick clouds, and fhades of night,
To confcious fouls direct thy flight!
There brood on guilt, fix there a loath'd embrace,
And propagate vain terrors, frights,
Dreams, goblins, and imagin'd fprights,
Thy vifionary tribe, thy black and monftrous race.
Go, haunt the flave that ftains his hands in gore!
Poffefs the perjur'd mind, and rack the Ufurer more,
Than his oppreffion did the poor before.
Vainly, you feeble wretches, you prepare
The glittering forgery of war;
The poifon'd fhaft, the Parthian bow, and spear
Like that the warlike Moor is wont to wield,
Which pois'd and guided from his ear
He hurls impetuous through the field:
In vain you lace the helm, and heave in vain the
He's only fafe, whofe armour of defence
Is adamantine innocence.
If o'er the fteepy Alps he go,
Vaft mountains of eternal fnow,
Or where fam'd Ganges and Hydafpes flow;
If o'er parch'd Libya's defart land,
Where threatening from afar
Th' affrighted traveller
Encounters moving hills of fand;
No fenfe of danger can disturb his reft ;
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