Still when I hear thee, O my fair,
I bid my heart rejoice;
I shake off every fullen care,
For forrow flies thy voice.
The feafons Philomel obey,
Whene'er they hear her sing;
She bids the winter fly away,
And the recalls the spring.
INCE I have long lov'd you in vain,
And doted on every feature;
Give me at length but leave to complain
Of so ungrateful a creature.
Though I beheld in your wandering eyes
The wanton symptoms of ranging;
Still I refolv'd against being wife,
And lov'd you in fpite of your changing.
you blame what heaven has made,
Or find any fault in creation?
'Tis not the crime of the faithless maid,
But nature's inclination.
'Tis not because I love you lefs,
Or think you not a true one ;,
But if the truth I must confefs,
I always lov'd a new-one.
TO LORD WARWICK ON HIS
BIRTH-DAY.
fraught with all that grateful minds can
With friendship, tenderness, respect, and love;
The Mufe had wifh'd, on this returning day,
Something moft worthy of herself to say:
To Jove the offer'd up an humble prayer,
To take the noble Warwick to his care.
Give him, fhe faid, whate'er diviner grace
Adorns the foul, or beautifies the face;
Let manly conftancy confirm his truth,
And gentleft manners crown his blooming youth.
Give him to fame, to virtue to aspire,
Worthy our fongs and thy informing fire:
All various praise, all honours, let him prove,
Let men admire, and fighing virgins love:
With honeft zeal inflame his generous mind,
To love his country, and protect mankind.
Attentive to her prayer, the god reply'd,
Why dost thou ask what has not been deny'd?
Jove's bounteous hand has lavish'd all his power,
And making what he is, can add no more.
Yet fince I joy in what I did create,
I will prolong the favourite Warwick's fate,
And lengthen out his years to fome uncommon date.
TO LADY JANE WHARTON, ON HER STUDYING THE GLOBE.
́HILE o'er the globe, fair nymph, your searches
And trace its rolling circuit round the fun,
You feem'd the world beneath you to furvey,
With eyes ordain'd to give its people day.
With two fair lamps methought your nations thone,
While ours are poorly lighted up by one.
How did thofe rays your happier empire gild!
How clothe the flowery mead and fruitful field!
Your earth was in eternal fpring array'd,
And laughing joy amidst its natives play'd.
Such is their day, but chearless is their night,
No friendly moon reflects your absent light:
And oh! when yet ere many years are past,
Those beams on other objects fhall be plac'd,
When fome young hero, with refistless art,
Shall draw thofe eyes, and warm that virgin heart:
How shall your creatures then their lofs deplore,
And want thofe funs that rife for them no more?
The blifs you give will be confin'd to one,
And for his fake your world must be undone.
TO MRS. PULTENEY, UPON HER GOING
IR'D with the frequent mischiefs of her eyes,
To diftant climes the fair Belinda flies.
She fees her spreading flames confume around,
And not another conqueft to be found.
Secure in foreign realms at will to reign,
She leaves her vaffals here with proud disdain.
One only joy which in her heart she wears,
The dear companion of her flight fhe bears.
Æneas thus a burning town forfook,
Thus into banishment his gods he took :
But, to retrieve his native Troy's disgrace,
Fix'd a new empire in a happier place.
ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1716.
HAIL to thee, glorious rifing year,
With what uncommon grace thy days appear!
Comely art thou in thy prime,
Lovely child of hoary Time;
Where thy golden footfteps tread,
Pleasures all around thee fpread;
Blifs and beauty grace thy train;
Mufe, frike the lyre to fome immortal strain.
But oh! what skill, what mafter hand,
Shall govern or constrain the wanton band!
Loofe like my verse they dance, and all without com
Images of fairest things,
Crowd about the fpeaking ftrings;
Peace and fweet profperity,
Faith and chearful loyalty,
With smiling love and deathless poefy.
Ye fcowling fhades who break away,
Well do ye fly and shun the purple day.
Every fiend and fiend-like form,
Black and fullen as a storm,
́Jealous fear, and false surmise,
Danger with her dreadful eyes,
Faction, fury, all are fled,
And bold rebellion hides her daring head.
Behold, thou gracious year, behold,
To whom thy treasures all thou shalt unfold, For whom thy whiter days were kept from times of old
See thy George, for this is he!
On his right hand waiting free,
Britain and fair Liberty:
Every good is in his face,
Every open honest grace.
Thou great Plantagenet! immortal be thy race!
See the facred feyon springs,
See the glad promise of a line of kings!
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