'Twas there he met the meffage of the skies,
That he, the Judge of Beauty, deal the prize.
The meffage known; one Love with anxious mind,
To make his mother guard the time affign'd,

Drew forth her proud white fwans, and trac'd the pair
That wheel her chariot in the purple air:
A golden bow behind his shoulder bends,
A golden quiver at his fide depends;
Pointing to these he nods, with fearless state,
And bids her fafely meet the grand debate.
Another Love proceeds, with anxious care,
To make his ivory fleek the fhining hair;
Moves the loose curls, and bids the forehead show,
In full expanfion, all its native fnow.

A third enclafps the many-colour'd ceft,
And, rul'd by Fancy, fets the filver vest;
When, to her fons, with intermingled fighs,
The Goddess of the rofy lips applies:

'Tis now, my darling boys, a time to show
The love you feel, the filial aids you owe:
Yet, would we think that any dar'd to strive
For charms, when Venus and her Love's alive?
Or fhould the prize of Beauty be deny'd,
Has Beauty's Emprefs aught to boaft befide?
And, ting'd with poison, pleasing while it harms,
My darts I trusted to your infant arms;

If, when your hands have arch'd the golden bow, The World's great Ruler, bending, owns the blow, Let no contending form invade my due,

Tall Juno's mien, nor Pallas' eyes of blue.

But, grac'd with triumph, to the Paphian shore
Your Venus bears the palms of conqueft o'er;
And joyful fee my hundred altars there,
With coftly gums perfume the wanton air.

While thus the Cupids hear the Cyprian Dame,
The groves refounded where a Goddess came.
The warlike Pallas march'd with mighty ftride,
Her fhield forgot, her helmet laid afide.
Her hair unbound, in curls and order flow'd,
And Peace, or fomething like, her visage fhew'd;
So, with her eyes ferene, and hopeful haste,
The long-ftretch'd alleys of the wood fhe trac'd;
But, where the woods a fecond entrance found,
With scepter'd pomp and golden glory crown'd,
The stately Juno ftalk'd, to reach the seat,
And hear the fentence in the last debate;
And long, feverely long, refent the grove;
In this, what boots it fhe's the wife of Jove?
Arm'd with a grace at length, fecure to win,
The lovely Venus, fmiling, enters in ;

All sweet and fhining, near the youth fhe drew,
Her rofy neck ambrofial odours threw ;
The facred scents diffus'd among the leaves,
Ran down the woods, and fill'd their hoary caves;
The charms, fo amorous all, and each so great,
The conquer'd Judge no longer keeps his feat;
Opprefs'd with light, he drops his weary'd eyes,
And fears he should be thought to doubt the prize.

ON

MRS. ARABELLA FERMOR

LEAVING LONDON.

F

ROM town fair Arabella flies:

The beaux unpowder'd grieve;

The rivers play before her eyes;
The breezes, foftly breathing, rise;
The Spring begins to live.

Her lovers fwore, they muft expire:
Yet quickly find their ease;

For, as she goes, their flames retire,
Love thrives before a nearer fire,
Efteem by diftant rays.

Yet foon the fair-one will return,

When Summer quits the plain : Ye rivers, pour the weeping urn; Ye breezes, fadly fighing, mourn; Ye lovers, burn again.

'Tis conftancy enough in love

That Nature's fairly fhewn:

To fearch for more, will fruitless prove; Romances, and the turtle dove,

The virtue boast alone.

ARID D L E.

UPON a bed of humble clay,
In all her garments loose,

A prostitute my mother lay,
To every comer's use.

Till one gallant, in heat of love,
His own peculiar made her;

And to a region far above,

And fofter beds, convey'd her.

But, in his abfence, to his place
His rougher rival came;
And, with a cold conftrain'd embrace,
Begat me on the dame.

I then appear'd to public view
A creature wondrous bright;

But fhortly perishable too,

Inconftant, nice, and light.

On feathers not together faft 1 wildly flew about,

And from my father's country pass'd To find my mother out.

Where her gallant, of her beguil❜d,

With me enamour'd grew,

And I, that was my mother's child,
Brought forth my mother too.

ON

THE DEATH OF MR. VINER.

IS Viner dead? and shall each Muse become
Silent as Death, and as his mufic dumb?
Shall he depart without a Poet's praise,
Who oft to harmony has tun'd their lays ?
Shall he, who knew the elegance of found,
Find no one voice to fing him to the ground?
Mufic and Poetry are fifter-arts,

Shew a like genius, and confenting hearts:
My foul with his is fecretly ally'd,

And I am forc'd to speak, fince Viner dy'd.

Oh, that my Mufe, as once his notes, could fwell!

That I might all his praises fully tell;

That I might fay with how much skill he play'd,
How nimbly four extended ftrings furvey'd;
How bow and fingers, with a noble ftrife,
Did raise the vocal fiddle into life;

How various founds, in various order rang'd,
By unobferv'd degrees minutely chang'd,
Through a vast space could in divifions run,
Be all distinct, yet all

agree

in one :

And how the fleeter notes could swiftly pass,
And skip alternately from place to place;
The strings could with a sudden impulse bound,
Speak every touch, and tremble into found.
The liquid harmony, a tuneful tide,

Now feem'd to rage, anon would gently glide;

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