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A thousand tender words I hear and speak;
A thousand melting kisses give, and take :
Then fiercer joys, I blush to mention these,
Yet, while I blush, confess how much they please.
But when, with day, the sweet delusions fly,
And all things waké to life and joy, but I,
As if once more forfaken, I complain,
And close my eyes to dream of you again :
Then frantic rife, and like fome Fury rove
Through lonely plains, and through the filent grove,
As if the silent grove, and lonely plains,
That knew my pleasurès, could relieve my pains.
I view the Grotto, once the fcené of love,
The rocks around, the hanging roofs above,


Blandior interdum; verisque simillima verba

Eloquor; et vigilant sensibus ora meis... Oscula cognofco; quae tu committere linguae,

Aptaque consuêras accipere, apta dare. Ulteriora pudet narrare ; fed omnia fiunt,

Et juvat, et sine te non libet effe mihi. At cum se Titan oftendit, et omnia fecum; 155

Tam cito me fomnos destituiffe queror. Antra nemusque peto, tanquam nemus antràque profint.

160 Conscia deliciis illa fuere tuis. Illuc mentis inops, ut quam furialis Erichtho

Impulit, in collo crine jacente feror. Antra vident očuli scabro pendentia topho,

Quae mihi Mygdonii marmoris inftar erant,

That charm’d me more, with native mofs o'ergrown,
Than Phrygian marble, or the Parian stone.
I find the shades that veil'd our joys before ;
But, Phaon gone, those shades delight no more.
Here the press'd herbs with bending tops betray
Where oft entwin'd in amorous folds we lay; 170
I kiss that earth which once was press’d by you,
And all with tears the withering herbs bedew.
For thee the fading trees appear to mourn,
And birds defer their songs till thy return;
Night shades the groves, and all in fileñce lie,

All but the mournful Philomel and I:
With mournful Philomel I join my strain,
Of Tereus fhe, of Phaon I complain.

A spring

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Invenio sylvam, quae faepe cubilia nobis
Praebuit, et multa texit

opaca coma.
At non invenio dominum fylvaeque, meumque.

Vile folum locus eft : dos erat ille loci. Agnovi prestas noti mihi cespitis herbas :

De nostro curvum pondere gramen erat. Incubui, tetigique locum qua parte fuisti ;

Grata prius lacrymas combibit herba meas. Quinetiam rami positis lugere videntur

Frondibus; et nullae dulce queruntur aves. Sola virum non ulta pie moestissima mater

Concinit Ifmarium Daulias ales Ityn. Ales Ityn, Sappho defertos cantat amores :

Hactenusa ut media caetera nocte filent.


From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer fpirits flow,

And separate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good, Thou, meán deserter of thy brother's blood !

30 See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks, now fading at the blaft of death ; Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball,

35 Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent herses shall besiege your gates ; There passengers fhall stand, and pointirg say, (While the long funerals blacken all the way) Lo! these were they, whose fouls the Furies steeld, And curst with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze

of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all, whose breast ne’er learn'd to glow 45 For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh ever-injur'd fhade !) Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid ? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleased thy pale ghoft, or graced thy mournful bier : 50 By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos’d, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,



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By foreign hands thy humble grave adornd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear, 55
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?

What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress’d,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast :
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground now sacred by thy reliques made.

So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov’d, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be !

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, 75
Deaf, the prais’d ear, and mute the tuneful tongue,
Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays ;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more !




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O wake the soul by tender strokes of art,

To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage,

Commanding tears to stream through every age ;
Tyrants no more their favage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,
And wild Ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause,
Such tears as Patriots shed for dying Laws :
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,

15 And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Virtue confess’d in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was : No common object to your sight displays, But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys, 29

A brave

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