RONALD AND DORNA:
DY A HIGHLANDER, TO HIS MISTRESS. From a literal Translation of the Original. COME, let us climb Skorr-urran's snowy top; Cold as it feems, it is less cold than you : Thin through its snow these lambs its heath-twigs
Your snow, more hoftile, starves and freezes too. What though I lov'd of late in Skie's fair ifle; And blush'd-and bow'd-and shrunk from Kenza's eye;
All she had power to hurt with was her smile; But, 'tis a frown of your's for which I die. Ask why these herds beneath us rush so fast On the brown fea-ware's stranded heaps to feed? Winter, like you, with holds their wish'd repast, And, robb'd of genial grass, they brouse on weed. Mark with what tuneful haste Sheleila flows,
To mix its wid'ning stream in Donnan's lake; Yet, should fome dam the current's course oppose, It must, per force, a less lov'd paffage take.
Born, like your body, for a spirit's claim, Trembling, I wait, unfoul'd, till you inspire: God has prepar'd the lamp, and bids it flame; But you, fair Dorna, have with-held the fire,
High as yon pine; when you begin to speak, My light'ning heart leaps hopeful at the found; But fainting at the fenfe, falls, void and weak, And finks and faddens like yon mossy ground.
All that I taste, or touch, or fee, or hear,
Nature's whole breadth reminds me but of you; Ev'n heav'n itself would your sweet likeness wear, If, with its power, you had its mercy too.
ABSTRACT FROM PSALM CXIV.
WHEN from proud Egypt's hard and cruel hand, High-fummon'd Ifrael fought the promis'd land, The opening fea divided at her call, And refluent Jordan rose, a wat'ry wall: Light as met lambs the starting hills leap'd wide, And the flow mountains roll'd themselves afide. Why, O thou sea! did thy vast depth divide? And why, O Jordan! fled thy back'ning tide? Why leapt your lines, ye frighted hills, aftray? And what, O mountains! rent your roots away? Hark! I will tell-proud earth confefs'd her God, And mark'd his wond'rous footsteps as he trod. While bent to bless, He cheer'd his thirsty flock, And into floods of liquid length diffolv'd the
THE SINGING BIRD.
Porz, in absence of his pain, Easy, negligent, and gay, With the fair in am'rous vein, 1 Lively as the smiling day, Talk'd, and toy'd the hours away, Tuneful, o'er Belinda's chair, Finely cag'd, a linnet hung, Breath'd its little foul in air,
Flutt'ring round its mansion sprung. And its carols sweetly sung.
Winding, from the fair one's eye, On her feather'd slave to gaze; Meant, cry'd Pope, to wing the sky, Yet, a captive all thy days, How dost thou this music raise!
Since a prisoner thou can'st sing, Sportive, airy, wanton, here, Hadst thou liberty of wing, How thy melody would cheer! How transport the lift'ning car! No, reply'd the warbling fong. Rais'd-articulate, and clear! Now, to wish me free were wrong; Loftier in my native sphere, But with fewer friends than here. Though with grief my fate you fee, Many a poet's is the same; Aw'd, secluded, and unfree, Humble avarice of fame, Keeps 'em fetter'd, own'd, and tame. To our feeders, they and I
Lend our lives in narrow bound; Perch'd within our owner's eye, Gay we hop the gilded round, Changing neither note nor ground.
For, should freedom break our chain, Though the self-dependent flight Would to heav'n exalt our strain, Yet unheard and out of fight, All our praise were forfeit by't.
GENTLE love, this hour befriend me, To my eyes refign thy dart; Notes of melting music lend me, To diffolve a frozen heart,
Chill as mountain snow her bosom, Though I tender language use, 'Tis by cold indiff'rence frozen, To my arms, and to my mufe. See! my dying eyes are pleading, Where a breaking heart appears: For thy pity interceding,
With the eloquence of tears, While the lamp of life is fading, And beneath thy coldnefs dies, Death my ebbing pulse invading, Take my foul into thy eyes.
MY SOUL'S LAST SIGHS,
TO THE DIVINE LOTHARIA.
LET plaintive thoughts in mournful numbers flow Profe is too dull for love, too calm for woe. Has the not bid thee quit thy faithful flame; Sell her and truth for equipage and name? Nay, she has bid thee go- Whence this delay! Whence this fond, fruitless, ling'ring wish to lay Lotharia bids thee go-the, who alone Makes all life's future bieffings, means thee none
Begone then-let thy struggling heart obey, And in long distance figh fad life away.
Still, ftill, vain flatt'ring hope mifleads defire, Fed by faint glimm'ring shoots of glow-worm fire. - What though she sweetly writes to ease thy grief, Or points kind comfort by the folded leaf: Such pity must thy grateful rev'rence move, But judge it right-nor think compaffion love. What though each word the marks, like spring's [flow'rs,
Flows sweet as new-blown breath of op'ning Such borrow'd sounds the need not have apply'd, Her own, more tuneful, thou too oft has try'd. To fpeak in music ever was her claim,
And all grows harmony that bears that name.
Had'st thou e'er touch'd her heart with one foft pain,
And bless'd in loving been belov'd again, All her cold reasoning doubts had ceas'd to move, And her whole gen'rous breast conceiv'd but love. She who believes not, loves not---Feel thy fate: Friendship from her pains more than other's hate. All the kind paffions, wanting one, she'll own; But, that one wanting, all the rest are none. Would love and the disperse the threat'ning storm, Let her believe, and truft, and break through form: Let her command thy stay to know fuccess, Nor fear the god-like attribute to bless : Born to diftinguish her from womankind, To court her converse and to take her mind; Fram'd for her empire, with her image fill'd, Charm'd by her form, and in her temper skill'd; Piercing her tim'rous heart's most fecret thought, And knowing, and adoring each dear fault, How art thou pain'd---to find her foft'ning will Held against love by ev'ry guard of skill! How art thou doom'd to lengths of op'ning woe, Should she feel love---yet fear to tell thee so?
If she distrufts thy truth---all hope must fall, Doubting her pow'r, she difoelieves thee all. And none who doubts her lover dares to love. Go, then---to climes cold as her heart remove; A diftant fate thy gloomy choice prefers, Present thou can'st not live and not live hers.
Farewell, kind, cautious, unrefolving fair! To hear the bless'd will charm amidst despair. 'Tis death to go---'tis more than death to stay, Reft will be fooneft reach'd the first dark way. Ne'er may'st thou know a pain; still cheerful be, Nor check life's comforts, with one thought of me.
TO MR. JAMES THOMSON,
On bis asking my advice to what Patron be should address bis Poem, called Winter.
SOME peers have noble skill to judge, 'tis true, Yet, no more prospect bounds the muse's view : Firm, in your native strength, thus greatly shown, Slight fuch delusive props, and stand alone: Fruitless dependance oft has prov'd too late, That greatness dwells not always with the great. Patrons are nature's nobles, not the state's, And wit's a title no broad feal creates:
F'en kings, from whose high fource all honours Are poor in pow'r when they would fouls bestow.
He who stoops safe beneath a patron's shade, Shines, like the moon, but by a borrow'd aid: Truth should, unbiass'd, free and open steer, Strong as heav'n's heat, and as its brightness clear Heedless of fortune, then, look down on state, Balanc'd within by merit's confcious weight: Divinely proud of independent will,
Prince of your wishes live a sov'reign, ftill; Oh! fwell not, then, the bosoms of the vain, With false conceit you their protection gain, Poets, like you, their own protectors stand, Plac'd above aid from pride's inferior hand. Time, that devours a lord's unlasting name, Shall lend her soundness depth to float your fame: On verse like yours no fmiles from pow'r expect, Born with a worth that doom'd you to neglect. Yet, would your wit be prais'd-reflect no more, Let the smooth veil of flatt'ry filk you o'er, Aptly attach'd, the court's soft climate try; Learn your pen's duty from your patron's eye. Ductile of foul each pliant purpose wind, And, following int'reft close, leave doubt behind: Then shall your name strike loud the public ear, For through good fortune virtue's self shines clear.
But, in defiance of our taste---to charm, And fancy's force with judgment's caution arm, Disturb with bufy thought so lull'd an age, And plant strong meanings o'er the peaceful page. Impregnate found with fenfe, teach nature ari, And warım ev'n winter, 'till it thaws the heart: How could you thus your country's rules tranf. grefs, Yet think of patrons, and prefume success!
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Thus while I mourn'd, retir'd from hated light, Sleep came, and hid affliction in the night; The night, instructive to my bold complaint, In a long dream did that sad march repaint, That pomp of tears which did for Sheffield flow, Who lately blacken'd half our streets with woe. There, cry'd a pointing seraph, look! compare! And blush, forgetful of your light despair! What has this mother lost, as far distress'd Beyond her sex, as late beyond 'em blest. Son of her foul! her child, by mind and birth, Bright by her fires, and guardian of her worth; Promise of virtues to the rifing age. Yet, ah! how blasted is the lov'd presage! Think of her lofs, her weight of woe bemoan, And, humbly conscious, sigh not for your own.
ST. MATTHEW, CHAP. VI. Part of the Sermon on the Mount.
LET shining charity adorn your zeal, The noblest impulse gen'rous minds can feel: But have a care you take this virtue right, And shun the glare of the proud hypocrite. Mistaken men! who, fond of public fame, Disgrace the act, while they affect the name! On earth, vain-glorious zeal may meet regard, But heav'n nor owns it, nor vouchsafes reward.
Thou, on the contrary, whose pitying breaft Wou'd, as it ought, give ease to the distrest; Ecarce tell thy right hand, what thy left will do, But be at once resolv'd and filent too. Secret, as night, thy pious alms convey; For God, who sees by night, rewards by day.
So, when thy foul approaches God in pray'r, Be not deceiv'd, as those false zealots are, Who daily into crowded temples press, And there, with feign'd devotion, heav'n address; But, when thou pray'st, all public notice shun, And, private, to thy inmost closet run: There, close and earnest, to thy duty fall, And God will show thee that he hears thy call.
Swell not thy forms of pray'r with wild defires, Excess of fuel chokes the brightest fires; 'The erring heathen so mistake their way, And think they best are heard who most can say. But shun thou this, and know God's piercing eye Sees all thy wants before thy words come nigh. From rising malice guard thy yielding will, Nor proudly dare to take revenge for ill: Thou must forgive, that God may pardon thee; For none who pities not shall pitied be.
Mifled by av'rice, seck not wealth to gain, By hoarding treasures which are got in vain : Deceitful riches, which the moth destroys, Which rust confumes, or the bold thief enjoys! In heav'n's high storehouse, let your heaps be laid, A wealth which no destroyer can invade; No moth there enters, rust corrupts not there, Nor plund'ring thief alarms the owner's care : Safe, therefore, in that place, your treasures lay; For where your riches are, your heart will tay. Secure of heav'n's regard, live free from care, Nor toil, life's common comforts to prepare:
Banish vain forecast for thy needful gain, Nor let meat, drink, and clothing, give thee pain, Observe the fowls-they neither reap, nor fow, Yet find their wants supply'd, where'er they go. Look on the lilies of the ripening field: No teil of theirs does those sweet colours yield; Yet was not Solomon, when drest to please, So gloriously adorn'd as one of these. If, therefore, God so feeds the feather'd train, So clothes the grass, which withers on the plai, How much more careful will he be of you, O, faithless man! who yet distrusts him too!
TO THE LOVELY MRS. HE, On ber Descent from the first Saxon Kings of our Hot HE, sweet name! whose princely meaning shows, [How From what high spring your blood's rich cures: With needless awe, reminds us of your race, Since heav'n has stampt dominion on your face Still in your sov'reign form, distinaly live All royal rights your father kings could give. In your commanding air, we mark their statt, And, in your words, their wisdom and thei
Warm in your noble breast, their courage lies, And all their pow'er and mercy in your eyes,
THE GARDEN WINDOW.
HERE, Amanda, gently bending, Sweetly pensive, loves to lean O'er the groves, her fight extending Through the walks that shoot between.
Plac'd, says she, within this window Screen'd, I distant charms survey, Taught by poor deceiv'd Olinde, Nothing's safe that looks too gay.
Here, I view, in soften'd shadings, Am'rous flow'r to flow'r incline, Too remote to mourn their fadings, When with hanging heads they pine,
Here I smell the fragrant breezes, Safe from ev'ning's chilly blaft; Here the noonday sunshine pleases, Fearless when 'twill overcast. Hence I hear the tempeft rising, See the grovy greatness shake, Ev'ry distant ill despising, While I every good partake. So commanding life's gay garden, Let me thornless wear the rose; Choice like mine let fashion pardon, Tafting charms but shunning woes,
AT SETTING DAY. -A SONG.
SINCE founding drums, and rising war, Invite my love to danger, I'll ask of every smiling star
To shield my roving ranger. While o'er the field, unfearing wounds You press the foe retreating,
Pll trace the dear remember'd bounds Of our more gentle meeting.
I'll pass whole days in yon fweet grove, Where first thy tongue deceiv'd me, When, lift'ning dumb, I blush'd my love, And no fear'd absence griev'd me.
On ev'ry bank thy fide hath prest,
I'll fleep, and dream I'm near thee; And each sweet bird, that strains its breast, Shall wake my hopes to hear thee. To all our haunts I will repair, And cold on yon bleak mountain, Trace all thy once trod footsteps there, And weep o'er each fad fountain. There will I teach the trees to wear
Thy name, in soft impression, And borrow fighs from ev'ning air, To swell my foul's confeflion.
For a Lady who ated Eudocia, in the Siege of Damefcus, represented at the Duke of Bedford's at Wooburn.
I've heard of maids, who first refolve to fast, And then weigh arguments, when facts are past; Young, though my reason is not fo, it firay'd; By: first found pleadings for the part I play'd.
Play'd, faid I, fecond thought that word re- tracts;
Fancies and foliies play, but passion acts: Paffion! the fpring that all life's wheels employs, Winds up the working thought-and heightens joys. [blame; Paffion! the great man's guide, the poor man's The foldier's laurel, and the figher's flame. Paflion that leads the grave, impels the gay, Bids the wife tremble, and the fool betray. Ev'n at this hour, what's here our pattime made, Gives the court business, and the kingdom trade; When factions quarrel, or when ftatefmen fall, Each does hut act his part at paffion's call.
Like our's, to night, Lord Paffion fets their task; Their fears, hopes, flatt'ries, all are paflion's
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WHENCE this reluctance, when we cease to run Life's flow fad race, and leaves its toy unwon? Death's but our tide of ebb, to that dark fea, Time's shoreless swallower, void eternity! 'Tis rest from labour-'tis escape from care; 'Tis thunn'd oppreffion, and reliev'd defpair. 'Tis but to rediffolve to formless flow, And join the mingled mass, that feels no woe. Fluid to fade, as all things round us do, Or from old being launch, to find out new. Emerging, or emerg'd, life rolls away, Foams into note, or flattens to decay. Round, with unceasing wheel, distinction glides, And through time's maze, in short succession slides: Flames its hot hour, like humbler household fires, Shines but to leave us, and in use expires.
'Tis the flash'd spark of thought, that bursts te light,
Strains foon, and big, and rushes into night: So the proud storm, that frights us with its roar, Breathes itself weary, and is heard no more. See that foft flow'r, whose sighs perfume the gales Blooms into duft, and its snuff'd life exhales! All nature heaves, and fets, like human breath, And life's loose links but stretch the chain of death.
Why then does erring fancy fright the mind? Why call that cruel, nature meant for kind? Who knows but fates we tremble at may bless, And length of happiest life be found distress ? Murder! that blast of thought, that bane of law, The good man's horror, and ev'n villain's awe! Murder! that nature dreads, and confcience flies, Perhaps but spurs us to some waiting prize!
Elfe, why should creature still with creature jar? And clash'd existence wage eternal war? Beaft bleeds by beaft; fishes on fishes prey; And birds act murder with more waste than they: Ev'n the sweet thrush, that bribeş us with her song, To guard her dread of death from beaks more ftrong,
Sav'd from the kite, strait bloodier grows than he, And fuaps the shiv'ring infect from the tree. Life starts but up, to answer death's due call, And one mysterious darkness wraps us all!
IN THE PARK, WITHOUT SEEING HER. So flide our comforts by, unmark'd, unknown, While our ill-fate comes felt, and all our own! Too cruel world! where things we wou'd refuse We start upon-and, what we wish we lose! And yet Lotharia would be hid in vain, She cannot be conceal'd whom thoughts retain, Air, and Lotharia, every where are found; Held by our breath and to our being bound! Darkness itself wants pow'r to cover friends, Whom the foul dwells with, and the sense attends
TO THE LADY THAT LAUGHS,
AT DYING IN METAPHOR.
AND why, fair trifler, does that meaning eye smile in contempt, when lovers swear they dic
"Twixt death and love, but one small diff 'rence, Plunges, with bold neglect, amidst the keys,
TO THE LADY,
Who fends me all ber good Wishes.
SUPPOSE that the fun had a tongue, and shou'd fay, May your journey be bless'd with a very fine day : Then, withdrawing his face, flip aside with his light, [night: And furround me, at once, with the coldness of What would Florimel say to this trick of the sun? I would fay, cry'd the charmer, 'twas cruelly done. Would you so, answer'd Il-have a care what you [none. Who have wish'd me all blessings, yet granted me
Writ upon a Pane of Glass in Westminster House, under the names of bis four Children.
ALL happy, then while o'er their smiling air, A living mother breath'd her guardian care; But, joyless, since their sweet supporter dy'd, They wander now through life with half a guide. August 25. 1731.
BELLARIA AT HER SPINET.
SWEETLY confus'd, with scarce consenting will, Thoughtless of charms, and diffident of skill; See! with what blushful bend, the doubting fair Props the rais'd lid-then fits with sparkling air, Tries the touch'd notes-and, hast'ning light along, [wrong. Calls out a short complaint, that speaks their Now back'ning, awful, nerv'd, erect, ferene, Asserted music swells her heighten'd mein. Fearless, with face oblique, her formful hand Flies o'er the ivory plain, with stretch'd command;
And sweeps the sounding range with magic eafe. Now, two contending senses-ear and eye, In pride of feasted taste, for transport vie; But what avails two destin'd flaves debate, When both are fure to fall, and share one fate? Whether the god within, evolving round, Strikes in her notes, and flows diffolv'd in found; Or filent in her eyes, enthron'd in light, Blazes, confefs'd to view, and wounds our fight. This way, or that, alike his pow'r we try, To fee, but kills us---and to hear, we die.
Oh! far-felt influence of the speaking ftring, Prompt at thy call the mounting foul takes wing Waves in the gale, fore-runs th' harmoniss
And finks and rises to the changeful keys. But, hark! what length'ning softness, thrilling
Steals, 'twixt the folemn swells, and threads 'em through:
'Tis her transporting voice!---she sings---be ftill Sweet strings, forbear!---ye hurt her sweeter fill Yet, no---found on---the strong and sweet thos join;
With double pow'r, mix'd opposites combine. 'Tis plain! my captive senses feel it true; Ah, what dire mischief may not union do! Cou'd she not save delight from half this ftrain? Heard and beheld at once!---'tis hopeless pain. Fly and escape---let one press'd sense retire; The rais'd hat shades it from the darted fire. Alas, vain screen ---the foul's unclouded ray Sees from within by a new blaze of day: Sees the spread roof, with op'ning glories crown', And radiant deities descending round!
Throng'd in bright lines, or wing'd in ambient air, Spirits, in fairy forms, enclose the fair.
Some, on the keys, in am'rous ambush lie, And kiss the tune tipt fingers dancing by. Some hov'ring wide, expiring shakes prolong, And pour 'em back to swell the rifing fong. Gods, in abridgment, crowd their needless aid, And pow'rs, and virtues, guard th' unconfcious maid.
Pity, with tears of joy, stands weeping near; Kneeling devotion hangs her lift'ning ear; Candour and truth firm fix'd on either hand, Propping her chair, two fure supporters ftand! Round her, while wrong'd belief imbibes new [length And hugs th' instructive notes, and aids ther Love, and his train of Cupids craftier cares, Scatter, with plumy fans, the dreaded airs. Pride, from a distant corner, glooms a leer, And longs, yet hopes not, to be call'd more near: But charity fits close---a well known guest, Bold, and domestic---and demands her breaft. High o'er her cheeks, to shade their tempting glow, Shame and soft modesty their mantles throw. While, from her brow, majestic wisdom feen, Tempers her glory, and inspires her mein. Such, and perhaps more sweet, those founds fhall rife,
Which wake rewarded saints, when nature dies:
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