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She is---THYR. Alas! she was, but is no more :
Now, Damon, now, let thy swoln eyes run o'er :
Here to this turf by thy fad Thyrsis grow,
And, when my streams of grief too shallow flow,
Let-in thy tide to raise the torrent high,
Till both a deluge make, and in it die.
DAM. Then, that to this wish'd height the flood

might fwell, Friend, I will tell thee.-Thyr. Friend, I thee will

How young, how good, how beautiful she fell.
Qh! she was all for which fond mothers pray,
Blessing their babes when first they see the day.
Beauty and she were one, for in her face
Sat sweetness temper’d with majestic grace ;
Such powerful charms as might the proudest awe,
Yet such attractive goodness as might draw
The humblest, and to both give equal law.
How was she wonder'd at by every

fwain !
The pride, the light, the goddess of the plain!
On all the shin'd, and spreading glories caft
Diffusive of herself, where-e'er she past,
There breath'd an air sweet as the winds that blow
From the blest shores where fragrant fpices grow :
Ev'n me fometimes she with a smile would grace,
Like the sun shining on the vilest place.
Nor did Dorinda bar me the delight
Of feasting on her eyes my longing fight :
But to a being so fublime, fo pure,
Spar'd my devotion, of my love secure.


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DAM. Her beauty such: but Nature did design That only as an answerable shrine To the divinity that's lodg’d within. Her soul thin'd through, and made her form fo bright, As clouds are gilt by the sun's piercing light. In her smooth forehead we might read expreft The even calmness of her gentle breast : And in her sparkling eyes as clear was writ The active vigour of her youthful wit.. Each beauty of the body or the face Was but the shadow of some inward grace. Gay, sprightly, chearful, free, and unconfind, As innocence could make it, was her mind ; Yet prudent, though not tedious nor severe, Like those who, being dull, would grave appear; Who out of guilt do chearfulness despise, And, being fullen, hope men think them wise. How would the listening shepherds round her throng, To catch the words fell from her charming tongue ! She all with her own spirit and soul inspir'd, Her they all lov'd, and her they all admir'd. Ev'n mighty Pan, whose powerful hand sustains The sovereign crook that mildly awes the plains, Of all his cares made her the tenderest part, And great Louisa lodg'd her in her heart.

THYR. Who would not now a folemn mourning keep, When Pan himself and fair Louisa weep? When those bleft eyes, by the kind gods design'd To cherith nature, and delight mankind,

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All drown'd in tears, melt into gentler showers.
Than April-drops upon the springing flowers ?
Such tears as Venus for Adonis shed,
When at her feet the lovely youth lay dead;
About her, all her little weeping Loves
Ungirt her Cestos, and unyok'd her doves.

DAM. Come, pious nymphs, with fair Louisa come,
And visit gentle Floriana's tomb;
And, as ye

walk the melancholy round, Where no unhallow'd feet prophane the ground, With your

chaste hands fresh flowers and odours shed About her last obscure and filent bed ; Still praying, as ye gently move your feet, « Soft be her pillow, and her slumber sweet!"

THYR. See where they come, a mournful lovely train As ever wept on fair Arcadia's plain : Louisa, mournful far above the rest, In all the charms of beauteous sorrow drest; Just are her tears, when she reflects how soon A beauty, second only to her own, Flourish'd, look'd gay, was wither’d, and is gone !

DAM. O, she is gone! gone like a new-born flower, That deck'd some virgin queen's delicious bower ; Torn from the stalk by some untimely blast, And ’mongst the vileft weeds and rubbish cast: Yet flowers return, and coming springs disclose The lily whiter, and more fresh the rose; But no kind season back her charms can bring, And Floriana has no fecond spring.



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THYR. O, she is set ! set like the falling fun;
Darkness is round and glad day is gone !
Alas! the sun that 's set, again will rife,
And gild with richer beams the morning-kies ;
But beauty, though as bright as they it shines,
When its short glory to the West declines,
O, there 's no hope of the returning light ;
But all is long oblivion, and eternal night!



I Thought, forgive my fin, the boasted fire

Of poets' souls did long ago expire ; Of folly or of madness did accuse The wretch that thought himself posseft with Muse; Laugh'd at the god within, that did inspire With more than human thoughts the tuneful choir; But sure 'tis more than fancy, or the dream Of rhymers slumbering by the Muses' stream. Some livelier spark of heaven, and more refin'd From earthy drofs, fills the great Poet's mind : Witness these mighty and immortal lines, Through each of which th' informing genius shines : Scarce a diviner flame inspir'd the King, Of whom thy Muse does so sublimely sing: Not David's self could in a nobler verse His gloriously-offending Son rehearse ;


* Mr. Dryden published it without his name.


Though in his breast the Prophet's fury met,
The Father's fondness, and the Poet's wit.

Here all consent in wonder and in praise,
And to the UNKNOWN Poet altars raise :
Which thou must needs accept with equal joy
As when Æneas heard the wars of Troy,
Wrapt up himself in darkness and unfeen,
Extoll’d with wonder by the Tyrian queen.
Sure thou already art secure of fame,
Nor want'st new glories to exalt thy name :
What Father else would have refus'd to own
So great a Son as god-like Absalom?





“ Ille ego qui quondam gracili modulatus avæna, “ Arma virumque cano."

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I, he, who sung of humble Oates before,
Now sing a Captain and a Man of WAR.


ODDESS of Rhyme, that didst inspire

The Captain with poetic fire,
Adding fresh laurels to that brow
Where those of victory did grow,
And statelier ornaments may Aourish now!

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