Gloffy ringlets all behind
Streaming buxom to the wind,

When along the lawn she bounds,

Light, as hind before the hounds:
And the youthful ring the fires,
Hopeless in their fond defires,
As her flitting feet advance,
Wanton in the winding dance.

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Tell me, fhepherds, have ye feen

My delight, my love, my queen?

32,

THE HAPPY SWAIN.

HAVE 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 ftrains to fing?

Have ye feen th' ethereal blue
Gently fhedding filvery dew,
Spangling o'er the filent green,
While the nightingale, unfeen,
To the moon and ftars, full bright,.
Lonefome chants the hymn of night?
Have ye feen the broider'd May
All her fcented bloom difplay,
Breezes opening, every hour,
This, and that, expecting flower,

While the mingling birds prolong,

From each bufh, the vernal fong?

Have ye feen the damask-rofe
Her unfully'd blush disclose,
Or the lily's dewy bell,

In her gloffy white, excell,
Or a garden vary'd o`er

With a thousand glories more?
By the beauties these display,

Morning, evening, night, or day,
By the pleasures thefe excite,
Endless fource of delight!

Judge, by them, the joys I find,
Since my Rofalind was kind,
Since the did herself refign
To my vows, for ever mine.

τα

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EPISTLES.

EPISTLES.

TO A FRIEND,

WHO

DESIRED ME TO WRITE ON THE DEATH OF KING WILLIAM.

April 20, 1702.

TRUS

“RUST me, dear George, could I in verfe but show What forrow I, what forrow all men, owe To Nassau's fate, or could I hope to raise A fong proportion'd to the monarch's praise, Could I his merits, or my grief, express, And proper thoughts in proper language drefs, Unbidden should my pious numbers flow, The tribute of a heart o'ercharg'd with woe; But, rather than prophane his facred hearse With languid praifes, and unhallow'd verse, My fighs I to myself in filence keep, And inwardly, with fecret anguifh, weep.

Let Halifax's Mufe (he knew him well)
His virtues to fucceeding ages tell.

Let him, who fung the warrior on the Boyne,
(Provoking Dorset in the task to join)
And fhew'd the hero more than man before,
Let him th' illuftrious mortal's fate deplore;

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16

A mourn

A mournful theme: while, on raw pinions, I
But flutter, and make weak attempts to fly :
Content, if, to divert my vacant time,
I can but like fome love-fick fopling rhyme,
To fome kind-hearted mistress make my court,
And, like a modifh wit, in fonnet fport.

Let others, more ambitious, rack their brains
In polifh'd fentiments, and labour'd strains :
To blooming Phyllis I a song compose,
And, for a rhyme, compare her to the rofe;

20

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28

Then, while my fancy works, I write down morn,
To paint the blush that does her cheek adorn,

And, when the whiteness of her skin I show,

With ecftafy bethink myself of fnow.

32

Thus, without pains, I tinkle in the close,

And sweeten into verfe infipid profe.

The country fcraper, when he wakes his crowd,

And makes the tortur'd cat-gut squeak aloud,

36

Is often ravish'd, and in transport lost :

What more, my friend, can fam'd Corelli boaft,

When harmony herself from heaven defcends,

And on the artist's moving bow attends?

40

Why then, in making verfes, should 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 ftudy'd fool,

A Withers, not a Rymer, fince I aim

44

At nothing lefs, in writing, than a name.

48 FROM

FROM HOLLAND, TO A FRIEND IN

ENGLAND, IN THE YEAR 1703.

ROM Utrecht's filent walks, by winds, I fend

FR

Health and kind wishes to my absent friend.
The winter spent, I feel the poet's fire;
The fun advances, and the fogs retire:
The genial fpring unbinds the frozen earth,
Dawns on the trees, and gives the primrose birth.
Loos'd from their friendly harbours, once again
Confederate fleets affemble on the main :

The voice of war the gallant foldier wakes ;
And weeping Cloë parting kiffes takes.

On new-plum'd wings the Roman eagle foars;
The Belgick lion in full fury roars.

Dispatch the leader from your happy coaft,
The hope of Europe, and Britannia's boast:
O, Marlborough, come! fresh laurels for thee rife!
One conqueft more; and Gallia will grow wife.
Old Lewis makes his last effort in arms,

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16

And fhews how, ev'n in age, ambition charms.

Meanwhile, my friend, the thickening shades I haunt,

And fmooth canals, and after rivulets pant:

20

The fmooth canals, alas, too lifeless fhow!
Nor to the eye, nor to the ear, they flow.

Studious of eafe, and fond of humble things,
Below the fmiles, below the frowns of kings,
Thanks to my stars, I prize the sweets of life:
No fleepless nights I count, no days of strife.

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Content