What fmiling Graces my bleft Eyes invade!
Hail, bright MARIA! Hail Cæleftial Shade!
Here Virgin-Innocence, and Love Divine,
Mixt in one Face, in fweet Confufion fhine:
And foftly varying blend, in doubtful Red,
The tender Mother with the blushing Maid;
Such glorious Forms the guilty Temples stain,
And Crowds, adoring, lift their Hands in vain.

Thus Ancient Greece prefum'd, with flatt'ring Skill
Minerva's awful Beauty's to reveal;

Into the Manfions of the GoDs to pry,
And paint the Pow'rs conceal'd within the Sky.
Bold Plato thus his fhadowy Science taught;
And Athens prais'd the New, Harmonious Thought.

Vain Thefts of Human Art! No Paint can fhew,
No Words can figure what no Mortals know.
Poorly our faint Idea's all combine

To form an Image of the Pow'r Divine:
He only his own Likenefs can exprefs
And Radiant Image in full Glory Drefs;
New-mold the Clay, and with his Finger trace
His bright Refemblance on the ftubborn Mass;
Thofe Heav'nly Colours on the Mind revive,
Inform the Heart, and teach the Soul to live.

SONG.

A$

SONG.

S. Damon late, with Chloe fat,

They talk'd of Am'rous Bliffes,

Kind Things he faid, which fhe repaid
In pleafing Smiles and Kiffes;

With tuneful Tongue, of Love he fung,

She thank'd him for his Ditty,

But faid, one Day she heard him fay,
The Flute was wond'rous pretty.

II.

Young Damon, who her Meaning knew,
Took out his PIPE to Charm her,

And whilst he ftrove with wanton Love,

And sprightly Airs to warm her,

She beg'd the Swain to play one Strain

In all the foftest Measure,

Whofe killing Sound, would furely wound,

And make her dye with Pleasure.

III.

Eager to do't, he took his FLUTE,
And every Accent traces,

Love trickling thro' his Fingers blew,
And whisper'd melting Graces;
He did his Part with wond'rous Art,
Expecting Praises after;

But fhe, instead of falling Dead,
Burst out into a Laughter.

IV.

Taking the Hint, as Chloe meant,
Said he, my Dear, be easy,

I have a FLUTE, which, tho' 'tis mute,
May play a Tune to please you;
Then down he laid, the loving Maid,
He found her kind and willing,
He play'd again, and tho' each Strain
Was filent, yet 'twas killing.

V.

Fair Chloe foon approv'd his Tune,

And vow'd he play'd divinely;

Let's

Let's take it o'er, says she, once more,

It goes exceeding finely;

The Flute is Good, that's made of Wood,

And is, I own, the Neateft, But ne'ertheless, I must confess, The filent FLUTE's the Sweetest.

SONG.

Farewel, dear Tyrant of my Soul,

The Fates refolve we now muft part;

The Fates admit of no Controul,

But are relentless as your Heart.

II.

Why did the GODS fuch Charms bestow
On fuch a falfe and cruel Mind?

Why fend fuch Beauty here below,
To Ruin me and all Mankind?

III.

Where e'er you move, whole Crowds fall down,
Proud to be trampled on by Thee;

The mighty'ft KINGS refign their Crown,"

And Commonwealths their Liberty.

IV.

Should't thou o'er Gallia make a Tour,

Where flavish Subjects breathe with Awe; The Grand Monarch would own thy Pow'r, And ftrait repeal the Salique Law.

Nay, the grave Hollander himself,

Tho ne'er fo Frugal, Chafte and Old; Would foon forfake his Darling, Pelf, anti

And worship Thee instead of Gold. Anywane

VI.

But where, by Rapture, am I hurld?
All things confefs your haughty Reign;
While thus you lead the Captive World
In one Great Univerfal Chain.

LETTER