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Our British arms the sacred tomb might wrest

From Pagan hands, and triumph o'er the East;
And then you might our own high deeds recite,
And with great Tasso celebrate the fight.

19

TO A LADY

SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING.

1 CHLORIS! yourself you so excel,

When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought,
That, like a spirit, with this spell

Of my own teaching, I am caught.

2 That eagle's fate1 and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own,

Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

3 Had Echo, with so sweet a grace, Narcissus' loud complaints return'd, Not for reflection of his face,

But of his voice, the boy had burn'd.

TO THE MUTABLE FAIR.

HERE, Cælia! for thy sake I part
With all that grew so near my heart;

The passion that I had for thee,

The faith, the love, the constancy!

1'Eagle's fate': Byron copies this thought in his verses on Kirke White.

And, that I may successful prove,
Transform myself to what you love.
Fool that I was! so much to prize
Those simple virtues you despise;
Fool! that with such dull arrows strove,
Or hoped to reach a flying dove;
For you, that are in motion still,
Decline our force, and mock our skill;
Who, like Don Quixote, do advance
Against a windmill our vain lance.

Now will I wander through the air,
Mount, make a stoop at every fair;
And, with a fancy unconfined
(As lawless as the sea or wind),

Pursue you wheresoe'er you fly,

And with your various thoughts comply.
The formal stars do travel so,

As we their names and courses know;
And he that on their changes looks,
Would think them govern'd by our books;
But never were the clouds reduced
To any art; the motions used
By those free vapours are so light,
So frequent, that the conquer'd sight
Despairs to find the rules that guide
Those gilded shadows as they slide;
And therefore of the spacious air,
Jove's royal consort had the care;
And by that power did once escape,
Declining bold Ixion's rape;
She with her own resemblance graced
A shining cloud, which he embraced.
Such was that image, so it smiled
With seeming kindness which beguiled

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Your Thyrsis lately, when he thought
He had his fleeting Cælia caught.
'Twas shaped like her, but, for the fair,
He fill'd his arms with yielding air.

A fate for which he grieves the less,
Because the gods had like success;
For in their story one, we see,
Pursues a nymph, and takes a tree;
A second, with a lover's haste,
Soon overtakes whom he had chased,
But she that did a virgin seem,
Possess'd, appears a wand'ring stream;
For his supposed love, a third

Lays greedy hold upon a bird,
And stands amazed to find his dear
A wild inhabitant of the air.

To these old tales such nymphs as you
Give credit, and still make them new;
The am'rous now like wonders find
In the swift changes of your mind.
But, Cælia, if you apprehend
The Muse of your incensed friend,
Nor would that he record your blame,
And make it live, repeat the same;
Again deceive him, and again,

And then he swears he'll not complain;
For still to be deluded so,

Is all the pleasure lovers know;
Who, like good falc'ners, take delight.

Not in the quarry, but the flight.

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TO A LADY,

FROM WHOM HE RECEIVED A SILVER PEN.

1 MADAM! intending to have tried
The silver favour which you gave,
In ink the shining point I dyed,

And drench'd it in the sable wave;
When, grieved to be so foully stain'd,
On
you it thus to me complain'd.

2 'Suppose you had deserved to take
From her fair hand so fair a boon,
Yet how deserved I to make

So ill a change, who ever won
Immortal praise for what I wrote,
Instructed by her noble thought?

3 I, that expressed her commands

To mighty lords, and princely dames, Always most welcome to their hands, Proud that I would record their names, Must now be taught an humble style, Some meaner beauty to beguile!'

4 So I, the wronged pen to please, Make it my humble thanks express Unto your ladyship, in these:

And now 'tis forced to confess That your great self did ne'er indite, Nor that, to one more noble, write.

TO CHLORIS.

CHLORIS! since first our calm of peace
Was frighted hence, this good we find,
Your favours with your fears increase,
And growing mischiefs make you

So the fair tree, which still preserves

kind.

Her fruit and state while no wind blows, In storms from that uprightness swerves, And the glad earth about her strows With treasure, from her yielding boughs.

TO A LADY IN RETIREMENT.

1 SEES not my love how time resumes

The glory which he lent these flowers? Though none should taste of their perfumes, Yet must they live but some few hours: Time what we forbear devours!

2 Had Helen, or the Egyptian Queen,1
Been ne'er so thrifty of their graces,
Those beauties must at length have been
The spoil of age, which finds out faces
In the most retired places.

3 Should some malignant planet bring

A barren drought, or ceaseless shower,
Upon the autumn or the spring,

And spare us neither fruit nor flower;
Winter would not stay an hour.

16 Egyptian Queen': Cleopatra.

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