While the bright dames, to whom they humbly fu'd, Still show the charms that their proud hearts subdu'd. Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse, And show th' immortal labours in my verse, Where from the mingled ftrength of fhade and light A new creation rifes to my fight, Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, Here pleafing airs my ravisht foul confound 96 ICO How has kind heav'n adorn'd the happy land, Her blooming mountains, and her funny fhores, The red'ning orange and the fwelling grain : 115 Oh Liberty, thou goddess heav'nly bright, Profufe of bliss, and pregnant with delight! 120 Eternal pleasures in thy prefence reign, And fmiling Plenty leads thy wanton train; 131 Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's ifle adores; How has fhe oft exhaufted all her ftores, How oft in fields of death thy presence fought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! On foreign mountains may the fun refine The grape's foft juice, and mellow it to wine, With citron groves adorn a distant soil, And the fat olive fwell with floods of oil: We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, Nor at the coarseness of our heav'n repine, Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads fhine: 'Tis Liberty that crown's Britannia's isle, 145 And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains fmile. Others with tow'ring piles may please the fight, And in their proud afpiring domes delight; A nicer touch to the stretcht canvas give, Or teach their animated rocks to live: 'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate, 150 155 Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with fecret dread Her thunder aim'd at his afpiring head, And fain her godlike fons would disunite By foreign gold or by domeftic spite: But strives in vain to conquer or divide, Whom Naffau's arms defend and counfels guide. Fir'd with the name, which I fo oft have found The diftant climes and diff'rent tongues refound, I bridle in my struggling Mufe with pain, That longs to lanch into a bolder ftrain. But I've already troubled you too long, Nor dare attempt a more advent'rous fong. My humble verfe demands a fofter theme, A painted meadow, or a purling ftream; Unfit for heroes; whom immortal lays, 165 And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, shou'd praise. TO HIS PERJUR'D MISTRESS. FROM HORACE. Nox erat, & cælo fulgebat luna fereno, &c. BY THOMAS YALDEN, D. D.* Ιτ was one evening, when the rifing moon II If e'er my breast a guilty flame receives, 20 Or covets joys, but what thy prefence gives; Ah faithlefs charmer, lovely perjur'd maid! Love ev'n thy crimes, and fly to guilty joys! 30 Thy fatal eyes my beft refolves betray, My fury melts in foft defires away: Each look, each glance, for all thy crimes attone, Elude my rage, and I'm again undone. But if my injur'd foul dares yet be brave, Unless I'm fond of shame, confirm'd a slave, I will be deaf to that enchanting tongue, Nor on thy beauties gaze away my wrong. At length I'll loath each prostituted grace, Nor court the leavings of a cloy'd embrace; 35 40 But show, with manly rage, my soul's above The cold returns of thy exhaufted love. Then thou shalt justly mourn at my disdain, Find all thy arts, and all thy charms in vain : ། |