Why doft thou figh, why strike thy panting breaft?
And fteal from life the needful hours of reft?
Are thy kids starv'd by winter's early frost?
Are any of thy bleating ftragglers loft?
Have ftrangers' cattle trod thy new-plough'd ground
Has great Joanna, or her greater fhepher, frown'd?
ALEXIS.
See my kids browze, my lambs fecurely play:
(Ah! were their master unconcern'd as they !)
No beafts (at noon I look'd) had trod my ground;
Nor has Joanna, or her fhepherd, frown'd.
Then ftop the lavifh fountain of your eyes,
Nor let thofe fighs from your fwoln bosom rife;
Chase sadness, friend, and folitude away;
And once again rejoice, and once again look gay.
ALEXIS.
Say what can more our tortur'd fouls annoy,
Than to behold, admire, and lofe our joy;
Whose fate more hard than thofe who fadly run,
For the laft glimpse of the departing fun?
Or what feverer fentence can be given,
Than, having seen, to be excluded heaven ?
Then ceafe to chide my cares!
And rather pity than reftrain my tears;
Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed,
To think how great my joys; how foon they fled;
Dtold thee, friend, (now blefs the shepherd's name,
From whose dear care the kind occafion came,)
That I, even I, might happily receive
The facred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis give:
That I might fee the lovely awful swain,
Whofe holy crofier guides our willing plain;
Whose pleafing power and ruling goodness keep
Our fouls with equal care as we our sheep;
Whose praise excites each lyre, employs each tongue
Whilft only he who caus'd, diflikes the fong.
To this great, humble, parting man I gain'd
Accefs, and happy for an hour I reign'd;
Happy as new-form'd man in paradife,
Ere fin debauch'd his inoffenfive blifs;
Happy as heroes after battles won,
Prophets entranc'd, or monarchs on the throne;
But (oh, my friend!) thofe joys with Daphnis flew
To them thefe tributary tears are due.
Was he fo humble then? thofe joys so vaft?
Ceafe to admire that both fo quickly paft.
Too happy fhould we be, would fmiling fate.
Render one bleffing durable and great ;
But (oh the fad viciffitude!) how foon
Unwelcome night fucceeds the chearful noon;
And rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June!
Then grieve not, friend, like you, fince all mankind
A certain change of joy and forrow find.
Supprefs your figh, your down-caft eyelids raise,
Whom prefent you revere, him absent praise.
To the COUNTESS of EXETER,
playing on the Lute.
HAT charms you have, from what high race
you sprung,
Have been the pleafing subjects of my song:
Unfkill'd and young, yet something still I writ,
Of Ca'ndifh' beauty join'd to Cecil's wit.
But when you please to fhew the labouring Mufe,
What greater theme your Mufick can produce;
My babbling praises I repeat no more,
But hear, rejoice, stand silent, and adore.
The Perfians thus, first gazing on the fun,
Admir'd how high 'twas plac'd, how bright it fhone ::
But, as his power was known, their thoughts were
And foon they worship'd, what at firft they prais'd.
Eliza's glory lives in Spenser's fong;
And Cowley's verse keeps fair Orinda young.
That as in birth, in beauty you excell,
The Muse might dictate, and the Poet tell:
Your art no other art can speak; and you,
To fhew how well you play, must play anew:
Your mufick's power your mufick must disclose ;
For what light is, 'tis only light that shows.
Strange force of harmony, that thus controuls
Our thoughts, and turns and fanctifies our fouls:
While with its utmost art your fex could move
Our wonder only, or at beft our love:
You far above both these your God did place,
That your high power might worldly thoughts de-
ftroy;
That with your numbers you our zeal might raise,
And, like Himself, communicate your joy.
When to your native heaven you shall repair,
And with your presence crown the bleffings there,
Your lute may wind its strings but little higher,
To tune their notes to that immortal quire.
Your art is perfect here; your numbers do,
More than our books, make the rude Atheist know,
That there's a heaven by what he hears below.
As in fome piece, while Luke his skill expreft,
A cunning angel came, and drew the rest:
So when you play, fome godhead does impart
Harmonious aid, divinity helps art;
Some cherub finishes what you begun,
And to a miracle improves a tune.
To burning Rome, when frantic Nero play'd,
Viewing that face, no more he had furvey'd
The raging flames; but, ftruck with ftrange furprize,
Confefs'd them lefs than those of Anna's eyes:
But, had he heard thy lute, he foon had found
His rage eluded, and his crime aton'd:
Thine, like Amphion's hand, had wak'd the stone,
And from deftruction call'd the rifing town:
Malice to mufick had been forc'd to yield;
Nor could he burn fo faft, as thou could'st build.
On a Picture of SENECA dying in a Bath. By Jordain. At the Right Hon. the Earl of EXETER'S, at Burleigh-house.
WHILE cruel Nero only drains
The moral Spaniard's ebbing veins,
By ftudy worn, and flack with age,
How dull, how thoughtlefs, is his rage!
Heighten'd revenge would he have took,
He fhould have burnt his tutor's book;
And long have reign'd fupreme in vice:
One nobler wretch can only rife;
'Tis he whofe fury shall deface
'The ftoic's image in this piece,
For while unhurt, divine Jordain,
Thy work and Seneca's remain,
He ftill has body, still has foul,.
And lives and fpeaks, reftor'd and whole.
WHILE blooming youth and gay delight
Sit on thy rofy cheeks confeft,
Thou haft, my dear, undoubted right
To triumph o'er this destin'd breaft.
My reafon bends to what thy eyes ordain ;
For I was born to love, and thou to reign.
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