There Cymon with his Rhodian friend refides,
Both court, and wed at once the willing brides.
A war enfues, the Cretans own their caufe,
Stiff to defend their hofpitable laws:
Both parties lofe by turns; and neither wins,
Till peace propounded by a truce begins;
The kindred of the flain forgive the deed,
But a fhort exile muft, for fhew, precede;
The term expir'd, from Candia they remove,
And happy, each, at home, enjoys his love.
Why fix'd is my gaze on the ground?
Come, give me my pipe, and I'll try
To banish my cares with the found.
Erewhile were it's notes of accord
With the smile of the flow'r-footed mufe;
Ah! why, by it's mafter implor'd,
Shou'd it now the gay carol refuse?
'Twas taught by Lavinia's sweet smile
In the mirth-loving chorus to join;
Ah, me! how unweeting the while!
Lavinia- -can never be mine!
Another, more happy, the maid
By fortune is deftin'd to blefs;
Tho' the hope has forfook that betray'd,
Yet why fhou'd I love her the lefs?
Her beauties are bright as the morn,
With rapture I counted them o'er ;
Such virtues those beauties adorn,
I knew her, and prais'd them no more.
I term'd her no goddess of love,
I call'd not her beauty divine:
These far other paffions may prove,
But they could not be figures of mine.
She is foft as the dew-drops that fall
From the lip of the fweet-fcented pea,
Perhaps, when fhe fmil'd upon all,
I have thought that she smil'd upon me.
But why of her charms fhould I tell?
Ah, me! whom her charms have undone! Yet I love the reflection too well,
The painful reflection to fhun.
Ye fouls of more delicate kind,
Who feast not on pleasure alone;
Who wear the soft sense of the mind,
To the fons of the world still unknown.
Ye know, tho' I cannot exprefs,
Why I foolishly doat on my pain; Nor will ye believe it the lefs
That I have not the fkill to complain.
I lean on my hand with a figh,
My friends the foft fadnefs condemn; Yet, methinks, tho' I cannot tell why, I should hate to be merry like them.
When I walk'd in the pride of the dawn,
Methought all the region look'd bright:
Has fweetness forfaken the lawn?
For, methinks, I grow fad at the fight,
When I ftood by the ftream, I have thought
There was mirth in the gurgling foft found;
But now 'tis a forrowful note,
And the banks are all gloomy around!
I have laugh'd at the jeft of a friend;
Now they laugh, and I know not the cause: Tho' I feem with my looks to attend,
How filly! I ask what it was!
They fing the sweet fong of the May,
They fing it with mirth and with glee;
Sure I once thought the fonnet was gay,
But now 'tis all fadnefs to me.
Oh! give me the dubious light
That gleams thro' the quivering shade;
Oh! give me the horrors of night,
By gloom and by filence array'd!
Let me walk where the foft-rifing wave
Has pictur'd the moon on it's breast:
Let me walk where the new-cover'd grave
Allows the pale lover to rest!
When fhall I in it's peaceable womb
Be laid with my forrows afleep!
Should Lavinia but chance on my tomb,
I could die if I thought she would weep.
Then! then! in the tenderest part
May I whisper, Poor Colin was true!'
And mark if a heave of her heart
The thought of her Colin purfue.
TO A FRIEND WHO FANCIED HIMSELF IN LOVE.
FT haft thou told me, Dick, in friendly part,
That the ufurper, Love, has feiz'd thy heart:
But thou art young; and, like our fanguine race,
In their full vigour, may't mistake thy cafe;
For, truft me, Love (that inmate of the mind)
Is very much mistaken by mankind;
For which, too often, is misunderstood,
The fudden rage and madness of the blood;
Thus every common rake his flame approves,
And when he's lewd and rampant, thinks he loves."
But I, who in that study am grown old,
Will to my friend fuch certain marks unfold,
By which a real paffion he may prove,
And without which he cannot truly love.
How does this tyrant lord it in thy mind?
What fymptoms of his empire doft thou find?
Doft thou within perceive the growing wound?
Does thy foul ficken, while thy body's found?
Does in thy thought fome blooming beauty reign,
Whose strong idea mingles joy with pain?
When the appears before thee, does she spread
O'er thy pale, fading cheeks, a fudden red?
Prefs her foft lips, or touch her lily hand,
Does thy heart flutter, does thy breast expand?
If but her name is mention'd, does it fire
Thy pulfes with a quick and fierce defire?
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