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Wind, lovely brook, thy murmuring way,
Still with my sorrows sympathize:
So may thy banks fresh flowers inlay,
Thy waves in rich redundance rise,
Mild zephyrs on thy bosom play!

If zephyr should his breath deny,

My sighs shall fan thy flowery beds; If parching rays thy channel dry,

The tears desponding Passion sheds Shall its exhausted stream supply.


TO THE RIVER DERWENT, WRITTEN IN A ROMANTIC VALLEY NEAR ITS SOURCE. DERWENT, what scenes thy wandering waves behold, [stray,

As bursting from thine hundred springs they And down these vales, in sounding torrents roll'd, Seek to the shining east their mazy way! Here dusky alders, leaning from the cliff,

Dip their long arms and wave their branches wide;

There, as the loose rocks thwart my bounding skiff, White moonbeams tremble on the foaming tide.

Pass on, ye waves, where, dress'd in lavish pride, Mid roseate bowers, the gorgeous Chatsworth beams,

Spreads her smooth lawns along your willowy side, And eyes her gilded turrets in your streams.

Pass on, ye waves, where Nature's rudest child, Frowning incumbent o'er the darken'd floods, Rock rear'd on rock, mountain on mountain piled, Old Matlock sits and shakes his crest of woods. But when fair Derby's stately towers you view, When his bright meads your sparkling currents drink,

O! should Eliza press the morning dew,

And bend her graceful footsteps to your brink,

Uncurl your eddies, all your gales confine,
And, as your scaly nations gaze around,
Bid your gay nymphs portray, with pencil fine,
Her radiant form upon your silver ground.

With playful malice from her kindling cheek Steal the warm blush, and tinge your passing stream;

Mock the sweet transient dimples as she speaks, And as she turns her eye reflect the beam! And tell her, Derwent, as you murmur by,

How in these wilds with hopeless love I burn, Teach your lone vales and echoing caves to sigh, And mix my briny sorrows with your urn.



To heights where Fancy ne'er aspired,
In what blest region of the sky,
Eludes the Queen of Love, retired,
The sophist's art, the poet's eye?



Not she for whom Cythera's bowers,
Or Apach's violated steep,
Or proud Assyria's guilty towers
Licentious revels wont to keep.
Thee rather, modest nymph! I greet,

The sage Athenian's chaster theme,
While echoed to his accents sweet
The olived roofs of Academe.

Still, goddess, thy permitted view

Charms more than mortal can reveal, Instruct each sense to nature true,

The eye to judge, the heart to feel. Within us dwell those forms divine

Which thy sole image can impart; We rear to thee no marble shrine Whose living temple is the heart!



THE night was dark; the wind blew cold;
Anacreon, grown morose and old,

Sat by his fire, and fed the cheerful flame:
Sudden the cottage door expands,

And, lo! before him Cupid stands, [his name. Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by

"What! is it thou?' the startled sire In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire

With crimson flush'd his pale and wrinkled cheek: 'Wouldst thou again with amorous rage

Inflame my bosom? Steeled by age, [too weak. Vain boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are

'What seek you in this desert drear?

No smiles or sports inhabit here;

Ne'er did these valleys witness dalliance sweet:
Eternal winter binds the plains;
Age in my house despotic reigns; [heat.
My garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no

6 Begone, and seek the blooming bower, Where some ripe virgin courts thy power, Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed; On Damon's amorous breast repose, Wanton on Chloe's lip of rose,

Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head.

'Be such thy haunts! These regions cold Avoid! Nor think, grown wise and old,. This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear : Remembering that my fairest years

By thee were mark'd with sighs and tears, I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare.

'I have not yet forgot the pains

I felt, while bound in Julia's chains : The ardent flames with which my bosom burn'd; The nights I passed deprived of rest; The jealous pangs which rack'd my breast; My disappointed hopes and passion unreturn'd.

'Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more! Fly from my peaceful cottage door! No day, no hour, no moment shalt thou stay. I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts, Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts: Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray!'

'Does age, old man, your wits confound?' Replied the offended god, and frowned; (His frown was sweet as is the virgin's smile!) 'Do you to me these words address? To me, who do not love you less,

Though you my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile!

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"If one proud fair you chanced to find, A hundred other nymphs were kind, Whose smiles might well for Julia's frowns atone: But such is man! his partial hand Unnumber'd favours writes on sand,

But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone.

'Ingrate! Who led you to the wave, At noon where Lesbia loved to lave? Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay? And who, when Celia shriek'd for aid, Bade you with kisses hush the maid? [say! What other was❜t than Love, oh! false Anacreon,

'Then you could call me

"Gentle boy!

My only bliss! my source of joy!" Then you could prize me dearer than your soul! Could kiss, and dance me on your knees; And swear, not wine itself would please, Had not the lip of Love first touch'd the flowing


'Must those sweet days return no more? Must I for aye your loss deplore,

Banish'd your heart, and from your favour driven? Ah! no; my fears that smile denies ;

That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes Declare me ever dear, and all my faults forgiven.

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