And while I suffer this to give him quiet,
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.

On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;
While I conceal my love no frown can fright me:
To be more happy, I dare not aspire;
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.



From The Indian Emperor

An fading joy ! how quickly art thou past !

Yet we thy ruin haste.
As if the cares of human life were few,

We seek out new :
And follow fate, that does too fast pursue.


See, how on every bough the birds express,

In their sweet notes, their happiness.
They all enjoy, and nothing spare;

But on their mother nature lay their care:
Why then should man, the lord of all below,

Such troubles choose to know,
As none of all his subjects undergo?


Hark, hark, the waters fall, fall, fall,
And with a murmuring sound


Dash, dash, upon the ground,

To gentle slumbers call.


In Albion and Albanius

OLD father Ocean calls my tide;
Come away, come away;
The barks upon the billows ride,
The master will not stay;
The merry boatswain from his side
His whistle takes, to check and chide
The lingering lads' delay,
And all the crew aloud has cried,
Come away, come away.



See, the god of seas attends thee,
Nymphs divine, a beauteous train;
All the calmer gales befriend thee,
In thy passage o'er the main;
Every maid her locks is binding,
Every Triton's horn is winding;
Welcome to the wat’ry plain!





Poor River, now thou’rt almost dry,
What Nymph, or Swain, will near thee lie?
Since brought, alas ! to sad decay,
What Flocks, or Herds, will near thee stay?
The Swans, that sought thee in thy Pride,
Now on new Streams forgetful ride :
And Fish, that in thy Bosom lay,
Chuse in more prosp'rous Floods to play.
All leave thee, now thy Ebb appears,
To waste thy sad Remains in Tears;
Nor will thy mournful Murmurs heed.
Fly, wretched Stream, with all thy speed,
Amongst those solid Rocks thy Griefs bestow;
For Friends, like those alas ! thou ne'er did'st know.



And thou, poor Sun! that sat'st on high;
But late, the Splendour of the Sky;
What Flow'r tho' by thy Influence born,
Now Clouds prevail, will tow'rds thee turn?
Now Darkness sits upon thy Brow,
What Persian Votary will bow?


What River will her Smiles reflect,
Now that no Beams thou can'st direct ?
By wat’ry Vapours overcast,
Who thinks upon thy Glories past?
If present Light, nor Heat we get,
Unheeded thou may'st rise, and set.
Not all the past can one Adorer keep,
Fall, wretched Sun, to the more faithful Deep.




Nor do thou, lofty Structure! boast,
Since undermined by Time and Frost:
Since thou canst no Reception give,
In untrod Meadows thou may'st live.
None from his ready Road will turn,
With thee thy wretched Change to mourn.
Not the soft Nights, or cheerful Days
Thou hast bestowed, can give thee Praise.
No lusty Tree that near thee grows,
(Tho' it beneath thy Shelter rose)
Will to thy Age a Staff become.
Fall, wretched Building ! to the Tomb.
Thou, and thy painted Roofs, in Ruin mixt,
Fall to the Earth, for That alone is fixt.


The same, poor Man, the same must be
Thy Fate, now Fortune frowns on thee.
Her Favour ev'ry one pursues,
And losing Her, thou all must lose.



No Love, sown in thy prosp'rous Days,
Can Fruit in this cold Season raise :
No Benefit, by thee conferred,
Can in this time of Storms be heard.
All from thy troubled Waters run;
Thy stooping Fabric all Men shun.
All do thy clouded Looks decline,
As if thou ne'er did'st on them shine.
O wretched Man! to other Worlds repair ;
For Faith and Gratitude are only there.



THE muse, of ev'ry heav'nly gift allowed
To be the chief, is public, though not proud.
Widely extensive is the poet's aim,

And in each verse he draws a bill on fame. 5 For none have writ (whatever they pretend)

Singly to raise a patron, or a friend;
But whatsoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themselves foresee.
Then let us find in your foregoing page,
The celebrating poems of the age;
Nor by injurious scruples think it fit
To hide their judgments who applaud your wit.
But let their pens to yours the heralds prove,

Who strive for you as Greece for Homer strove; 15 Whilst he who best your poetry asserts,


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