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To cach I give. A mizzling mist defcends
EASE your mufic, gentle fwains:
Every thicket, every grove,
Have I rang'd, to find iny love:
Gloffy ringlets all behind
Streaming buxom to the wind,
When along the lawn the bounds,
Tell me, shepherds, have ye seen
My delight, my love, my queen ?
THE HAPPY SWAIN.
AVE ye feen the morning fky,
When the dawn prevails on high,
When, anon, fome purply ray
Gives a fample of the day,
When, anon, the lark, on wing,
Strives to foar, and strains to fing?"
Have ye feen th' ethereal blue
Gently shedding filvery dew,
Spangling o'er the filent
While the nightingale, unfeen,
While the mingling birds prolong,
Have ye feen the damask-rofe
Judge, by them, the joys I find,
TO A FRIEND,
DESIRED ME TO WRITE ON THE DEATH OF KING WILLIAM.
April 20, 1702.
RUST me, dear George, could I in verfe but show What forrow I, what forrow all men, owe To Naffau's fate, or could I hope to raise A fong proportion'd to the monarch's praife, 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, rather than prophane his facred hearfe With languid praises, and unhallow'd verse, My fighs I to myself in filence keep, And inwardly, with fecret anguish, weep.
Let Halifax's Mufe (he knew him well)
Let him, who fung the warrior on the Boyne,
A mournful theme: while, on raw pinions, I
Let others, more ambitious, rack their brains
In polish'd fentiments, and labour'd strains:
To blooming Phyllis I a fong compofe,
And, for a rhyme, compare her to the rofe;
Then, while my fancy works, I write down morn,
To paint the blush that does her cheek adorn,
And, when the whitenefs of her skin I show,
Thus, without pains, I tinkle in the clofe,
And fweeten into verfe infipid profe.
The country scraper, when he wakes his crowd,
And makes the tortur'd cat-gut fqueak aloud,
Is often ravish'd, and in tranfport loft:
What more, my friend, can fam'd Corelli boaft,
When harmony herself from heaven defcends,
And on the artift's moving bow attends?
Why then, in making verfes, fhould I ftrain
For wit, and of Apollo beg a vein ?
Who ftudy Horace and the Stagyrite ?
Why cramp my dulnefs, and in torment write ?
Let me tranfgrefs by nature, not by rule,
An artless idiot, not a study'd fool,
A Withers, not a Rymer, fince I aim
At nothing lefs, in writing, than a name.