Faft by, a Naïd taught her ftream to glide,
Which thro' the dale a winding channel wore ;
The filver willow deck'd its verdant fide,

The whifp'ring fedges way'd along the shore.

Here oft, when Morn peep'd o'er the dufky hill;
Here oft when Eve bedew'd the misty vale;
Careless he laid him all befide the rill,

And pour'd in strains like these his artlefs tale.

Ah! would he fay-and then a figh would heave :
Ah Cynthia! fweeter than the breath of morn,
Soft as the gentle breath that fans at eve,

Of thee bereft how fhall I live forlorn?

Ah! what avails this sweetly folemn bow'r

That filent ftream where dimpling eddies play; Yon thymy bank bedeck'd with many a flow'r, Where maple-tufts exclude the beam of day.

Robb'd of my love, for how can these delight,
Tho' lavish Spring her smiles around has cast!
Despair, alas! that whelms the foul in night,

Dims the fad eye

and deadens

every taste.

As

As droops the lilly at the blighting gale;

Or * crimson-spotted cowflip of the mead, Whose tender ftalk (alas! their stalk fo frail)

Some hafty foot hath bruis'd with heedless tread :

As droops the woodbine, when some village hind
Hath fell❜d the fapling elm it fondly bound;
No more it gadding dances in the wind,

But trails its fading beauties on the ground:

So droops my foul, dear maid, downcaft and fad,
For ever! ah! for ever torn from thee;

Bereft of each sweet hope, which once it had,
When love, when treacherous love firft fmil'd on me.

Return bleft days, return ye laughing hours,
Which led me up the rofeat steep of youth;
Which ftrew'd my fimple path with vernal flow'rs,
And bade me court chafte Science and fair Truth.

Ye know, the curling breeze, or gilded fly
That idly wantons in the noon-tide air,

Was not fo free, was not fo gay as I,

For ah! I knew not then or love, or care.

On her left breaft

A mole cinque-Spotted: like the crimson drops
I' th' bottom of a cowflip.

Shakespear's Cymbeline, Act 3.

Witness

Witness ye winged daughters of the year,
If e'er a figh had learnt to heave my breaft
If e'er my
cheek was confcious of a tear,

'Till Cynthia came and rob'd my foul of rest!

O have you feen, bath'd in the morning dew,

The budding rofe its infant bloom display; When first its virgin tints unfold to view,

It fhrinks and scarcely trufts the blaze of day.

So foft, fo delicate, fo fweet fhe came,

Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek: I gaz'd, I figh'd, I caught the tender flame,

Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with paffion, weak,

Yet not unpitied was my pain the while;

For oft befide yon sweet-briar in the dale, With many a blufh, with many a melting fmile, She fate and liften'd to the plaintive tale.

Ah me! I fondly dreamt of pleasures rare,
Nor deem'd fo fweet a face with fcorn cou'd glow;
How could you cruel then pronounce despair,
Chill the warm hope, and plant the thorn of woe ?

What tho' no treasures canker in my chest,

Nor crowds of fuppliant vaffals hail me lord! What tho' my roof can boaft no princely gueft, Nor furfeits lurk beneath my frugal board!

Yet

1

Yet fhould Content, that shuns the gilded bed,

With fmiling Peace, and Virtue there forgot,
And rofe-lip'd Health, which haunts the ftraw-built fhed,
With cherub Joy, frequent my little cot:

Led by chafte Love, the decent band should come,
O charmer would'ft thou deign my roof to share?
Nor fhould the Mufes fcorn our fimple dome,
Or knit in myftic dance, the Graces fair.

The wood-land nymphs, and gentle fays, at eve
Forth from the dripping cave and moffy dell,
Should round our hearth fantastic measures weave,
And fhield from mischief by their guardian spell.

Come then bright maid, and quit the city throng,
Have rural joys no charm to win the foul?

She proud, alas! derides my lowly fong,
Scorns the fond vow, and fpurns the ruffet ftole.

Then Love begone, thy thriftlefs empire yield,

In youthful toils I'll lofe the unmanly pain: With echoing horns I'll roufe the jocund field, Urge the keen chace, and sweep along the plain.

Or all in fome lone mofs-grown tow'r fublime
With midnight lamp I'll watch pale Cynthia round,
Explore the choiceft rolls of ancient Time,

And heal with Wifdom's balm my hapless wound.

OF

Or elfe I'll roam.

-Ah no! that figh profound,

Tells me that stubborn love disdains to yield; Nor flight, nor Wifdom's balm can heal the wound, Nor pain forfake me in the jocund field.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX DIALOGUE to CHLORINDA

$.

By Mr. ALSO P.

EASE, Chlorinda, cease to chide me,
When my paffion I relate :

Why fhou'd kindness be denied me?
Why fhou'd love be pay'd with hate?

If the fruit of all my wishes

Muft be, to be treated fo;
What cou'd you do more than this is
To your most outrageous foe?

C. Simple Strephon, ceafe complaining,
Talk no more of foolish love;

Think not e'er my heart to reign in,
Think not all you fay can move.

Did I take delight to fetter

Thrice ten thousand flaves a day,

Thrice ten thousand times your betters

Gladly would my rule obey.

Striev