This oft the nymphs approach with secret dread,
While crimson blushes o'er their cheeks are spread;
Yet the true virgin has no cause for fear,
The test is equal if the maid's sincere.
This in thy walks, O—, is found,

Thy walks, for virgins fair and chaste renown'd:
This from the mild Hesperian clime convey'd,
Shall ever bloom, O W! in thy shade;
Yet western nymphs thy wondrous tree avoid,
Lest all their hopes be by a touch destroy'd.
Britannia's daughters no such terrors know;
With no lewd flames their spotless bosoms glow:
Though every shrub our cultured gardens boast,
And all of foreign stock, a countless host,
Should all at once the precious gift receive,
And every plant become a Sensitive,

Yet should their fame the dreadful trial stand,
And add new honours to their native land;
Honours their latest progeny shall share,
For ever virtuous, as for ever fair.

PROLOGUE.

DESIGNED FOR THE PASTORAL TRAGEDY OF DIONE.

THERE was a time (O were those days renew'd!)
Ere tyrant laws had woman's will subdued;
Then Nature ruled, and Love, devoid of art,
Spoke the consenting language of the heart.
Love uncontroll'd; insipid, poor delight!
'Tis the restraint that whets our appetite.
Behold the beasts who range the forests free,
Behold the birds who fly from tree to tree;
In their amours see Nature's power appear!
And do they love? Yes-One month in the
Were these the pleasures of the golden reign?
And did free Nature thus instruct the swain?
I envy not, ye nymphs! your amorous bowers,
Such harmless swains!-I'm even content with

ours.

year.

But yet there's something in these silvan scenes
That tells our fancy what the lover means;
Name but the mossy bank and moonlight grove,
Is there a heart that does not beat with love?
To-night we treat you with such country fare,
Then, for
your lovers' sake, our author spare.
He draws no Hemskirk boors or home-bred clowns,
But the soft shepherds of Arcadia's downs.

When Paris on the three his judgment pass'd, I hope you'll own the shepherd show'd his taste: And Jove, all know, was a good judge of beauty, Who made the nymph Calisto break her duty: Then was the country nymph no awkward thing. See what strange revolutions time can bring!

Yet still, methinks, our author's fate I dread; Were it not safer beaten paths to tread Of Tragedy, than o'er wild heaths to stray, And, seeking strange adventures, lose his way? No trumpets' clangor makes his heroine start, And tears the soldier from her bleeding heart; He, foolish bard! nor pomp nor show regards; Without the witness of a hundred guards His lovers sigh their vows-If sleep should take ye, He has no battle, no loud drum, to wake ye. What, no such shifts? there's danger in 't, 'tis true; Yet spare him, as he gives you something new.

THE

LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH

FOR THE

LOSS OF GRILDRIG.

A Pastoral.

SOON as Glumdalclitch miss'd her pleasing care,
She wept, she blubber'd, and she tore her hair.
No British miss sincerer grief has known,
Her squirrel missing, or her sparrow flown.
She furl'd her sampler, and haul'd in her thread,
And stuck her needle into Grildrig's bed;
Then spread her hands, and with a bounce let fall
Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall.
In peals of thunder now she roars, and now
She gently whimpers like a lowing cow:
Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears

Her locks dishevell'd, and her flood of tears
Seem like the lofty barn of some rich swain,
When from the thatch drips fast a shower of rain.
In vain she search'd each cranny of the house,
Each gaping chink impervious to a mouse.
Was it for this, (she cried) with daily care
Within thy reach I set the vinegar,
And fill'd the cruet with the acid tide,
While pepper-water worms thy bait supply'd,
Where twined the silver eel around thy hook,
And all the little monsters of the brook?

Sure in that lake he dropp'd: myGrilly's drown'd.'— She dragg'd the cruet, but no Grildrig found.

'Vain is thy courage, Grilly! vain thy boast; But little creatures enterprise the most. Trembling I've seen thee dare the kitten's paw, Nay, mix with children as they play'd at taw, Nor fear'd the marbles as they bounding flew; Marbles to them, but rolling rocks to you.

Why did I trust thee with that giddy youth! Who from a page can ever learn the truth? Versed in court-tricks, that money-loving boy To some lord's daughter sold the living toy, Or rent him limb from limb, in cruel play, As children tear the wings of flies away. From place to place o'er Brobdingnag I'll roam, And never will return, or bring thee home. But who hath eyes to trace the passing wind? How then thy fairy footsteps can I find? Dost thou bewilder'd wander all alone, In the green thicket of a mossy stone, Or tumbled from the toadstool's slippery round, Perhaps all maim'd, lie grovelling on the ground? Dost thou imbosom'd in the lovely rose, Or sunk within the peach's down repose? Within the king-cup if thy limbs are spread, Or in the golden cowslip's velvet head,

O show me, Flora! 'midst those sweets, the flower Where sleeps my Grildrig in his fragrant bower! But ah! I fear thy little fancy roves

On little females and on little loves;

Thy pigmy children, and thy tiny spouse,
The baby playthings that adorn thy house,
Doors, windows, chimneys, and the spacious rooms
Equal in size to cells of honeycombs.