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Then Venus speaks ; the wavering flames retire, And Zephyr's breath extinguishes the fire. At length the Goddess in the helmet's round A sweet and subtile spirit duly found; Mo foft than oil, than æther more refin'd, Of power to cure the woes of womankind, Anu cali'd it FLATTERY :--balm of female life ! It charms alike the widow, maid, and wife ; Clears the sad brow of virgins in despair, And smooths the cruel traces left by care, Bids palsy'd age with youthful Spirit glow, And hangs May's garlands on December's snow. Delicious effence ! howsoe'er apply'd, i By what rude nature is thy charm deny'd ? Some form seducing still thy whisper wears, Stern Wisdom turns to thee her willing ears, And Prudery listens, and forgets her fears. The rustic nymph, whom rigid aunts restrain, Condemn'd to dress, and practise airs in vain, At thy first summons finds her bofom swell, And bids her crabbed governantes farewel : While, fir’d by thee, with spirit not her own, She grows a toast, and rises into ton. The faded beauty, who, with secret pain, Sees younger charms usurp her envy'd reign, By thee asided, can with smiles behold The record where her conquests are enrollid; And dwelling yet on scenes by memory nurs’d, When George the Second reign'd, or George the First; She sees the shades of ancient beaux arise, Who swear her eyes exceeded modern eyes, When poets sung for her, and lovers bled, And giddy fashion follow'd as she led,

Departed modes appear in long array,
The Aowers and founces of her happier day,
Again her locks the decent fillets bind,
The waving lappet flutters in the wind,
And then comparing with a proud disdain
The more fantastic tastes that now obtain,
She deems ungraceful, trifting and absurd,
The gayer world that moves round George the Third.
Nor thy soft influence will the train refuse,
Who court in diftant shades the modest Muse,
Tho' in a form more pure and more refin'd,
Thy foothing spirit meets the letter'd mind,
Not death itself thine empire can destroy ;
Towards thee, e'en then, we turn the languid eye;
Still trust in thee to bid our memory bloom,
And scatter roses round the filent tomb.

COLLINS.

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be

dead, To fair Fidele's grassy tomb,

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring . Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing Spring. No wailing ghost shall dáre appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; But thepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No witherid witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
The red-breast oft at evening hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs,

To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempest shake thy sylvan cell ; Or ’midst the chace on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell: Each lonely scene fhali thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly shed; Belov'd, till life can charm no more ;

And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

:ODE,
Written in the Year 1746.

How feep the brave, who fink to rest
By all their country's wishes bleft!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter fod,
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By Fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;

There Honour comes, a pilgrim'grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay';
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

ODE,

TO EVENING IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,

Like thy own folemn springs

Thy springs, and dying gales ; O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd fun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed : Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shriek Aits by on leathern wing,

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borre in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid compos’d,

To breathe some soften'd strain,
Whose numbers stealing thro' thy darkening vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As, mufing flow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!
For when thy folding-ftar arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant hours, and elves

Who Nept in buds the day,
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with fedge,
And sheds the freshening dew; and, lovlier still,

The penfive pleasures sweet
Prepare thy Mhadowy car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Or find some ruin ’midst its dreary dells,

Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the but,

That from the mountain's fide

Views wilds and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their fimple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing trefies, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light;
While fallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,,

Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes ;
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favourite name!

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