When in your eyes resistless lightnings play,
Awed into love our conquered hearts obey,
And yield, reluctant, to despotick sway:
But when your musick sooths the raging pain;
We bid propitious Heaven prolong your reign,
We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain.

When old Timotheus struck the vocal string,
Ambition's fury fired the Grecian king:
Unbounded projects laboured in his mind,
He pants for room-in one poor world confined-
Thus waked to rage, by musick's dreadful power,
He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour.
Had Stella's gentler touches moved the lyre,
Soon had the monarch felt a nobler fire:
No more delighted with destructive war,
Ambitious only now to please the fair;
Resigned his thirst of empire to her charms,
And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms;



« Go to the Ant, thou Sluggard."

TURN on the prudent ant thy heedless eyes,
Observe her labours, Sluggard, and be wise,

No stern command, no monitory voice
Prescribes her duties or directs her choice;
Yet timely provident, she hastes away,
To snatch the blessings of a plenteous day:
When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plain.

crops the harvest, and she stores the grain
How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours,
Unnerve thy vigor, and enchain thy powers?
While artful shades thy downy couch enclose,
And soft solicitation, courts repose.
Amid the drowsy charms of diill delight;
Year chases year with unremitted fight;
Till want now following, fraudulent and slow, I
Shall spring to seize thee like an ambushed foes



The snow dissolved, no more is seen;
The fields and wood's, behold! are green.
The changing ycar renews the plain,
The rivers know their banks again,
The sprightly Nymph and naked Grace
The mazy dance together trace.
The changing year's successive plan
Proclaims mortality to man.mamen

Rough Winter's blasts to Spring give way, Spring yields to Summer's sovereign ray, The Summer sinks in Autumn's reign, And Winter chills the world again: Her losses soon the moon supplieś, But wretched man-when once he lies Where Priam and his sons are laid, Is nought but ashes and a shade. Who knows if Jove, who counts our score, Will toss us in a morning more? What with your friend you nobly share, At least, you rescue from your heir; Not you Torquatus, boast of Rome, When Minos once has fixed your doom, Or eloquence, or splendid birth, Or virtue, shall restore to earth. Hippolytus, unjustly slain, Diana calls to life in vain; Nor can the might of Theseus rend The chains of hell that hold his friend.



Had the fair figure which this frame displays, Adorned in Roman time the brightest days,

In every dome, in every sacred place,
Her statue would have breathed an added grace,
And on its basis would have been enrolled,
“This is Minerva; cast in virtue's mould.".

Scattering, as thy pinions play,
Liquid fragrance all the way;
Is it business? is it loye?
Tell me, tell me, gentle dove.

Soft, Anacreon's vows I hear,
Vows to Myrtale the fair;
Graced with all that charms the heart,
Blushing nature, smiling art
Venus courted by an ode,
On the bard her dove bestowed:
Vested with a master's right,
Now Anacreon rules my fight;
His the letters that you see,
Weighty charge, consign'a to me:
Think not yet my service hard,
Joyless task without reward;
Smiling at my master's gates,
Freedom my return awaits;
But the liberal grant, in vain
Tempts me to be wild again.
Can a prudent dove decline
blissful bondage such as mine?

[ocr errors]

Over hills and fields to roam,
Fortune's guest without a home;
Under leaves to hide one's head,
Slightly sheltered, .coarsely fed:
Now my better lot bestows
Sweet repast, and soft repose:
Now the generous bowl I sip,
As it leaves Anacreon's lip:
Void of cares and free from dread,
From his fingers snatch his bread;
Then with luscious plenty gay,
Round his chamber dance and play;
Or from wine as courage springs,
O’er his face extend my wings;
And when feast and frolick tire,
Drop asleep upon his lyre.
This is all, be quick and go,
More than all thou canst not know;
Let me now my pinions ply,
I have chattered like a pye.


Written in ridicule of certain Poems published in 1777.

WHERESOE'ER I turn my view,
All is strange, yet nothing new;

« ElőzőTovább »