Pay what she can in tributary lays,
And to his virtue grant supplies of praise.
To all the world your grateful hearts make known,
And in your monarch's fame record your own:
His fame---which Envy's breath can never blast,
But ages yet to come shall join the past,
And Brunswick's glory with the world shall last.
TO DR. M
READING MATHEMATICS.
VAIN our pursuits of knowledge, vain our care;
The cost and labour we may justly spare :
Death from this coarse alloy refines the mind,
Leaves us at large t' expatiate unconfin'd;
All science opens to our wond'ring eyes,
And the good man is in a moment wise.
As o'er Asteria's fields I rove,
The blissful seat of peace and love,
Ten thousand beauties round me rise,
And mingle pleasure with surprise.
By Nature bless'd in ev'ry part,
Adorn'd with ev'ry grace of art,
This paradise of blooming joys
Each raptur'd sense at once employs.
But when I view the radiant Queen
Who form'd this fair inchanting scene,
Pardon, ye Grots! ye crystal Floods!
Ye breathing Flow'rs! ye shady Woods!
Your coolness now no more invites ;
No more your murm'ring stream delights;
Your sweets decay, your verdure's flown;
My soul's intent on her alone.
PARAPHRASE UPON A FRENCH SONG.
Venge moi d'une ingrate maitresse,
Dieu du vin, j'implore bon yvresse.
KIND relief in all my pain,
Jolly Bacchus! hear my pray'r,
Vengeance on th' ungrateful fair!
In thy smiling cordial bowl
Drown the sorrows of my soul;
All thy deity employ,
Gild each gloomy thought with joy.
Jolly Bacchus! save, oh! save
From the deep devouring grave
A poor despairing dying swain.
Haste away,
Lash thy tigers, do not stay;
I'm undone if thou delay:
If I view those eyes once more,
Still shall love and still adore,
And be more wretched than before.
See the glory round her face!
See her move!
With what a grace!
Ye Gods above!
Is she not one of your immortal race?
Fly, ye winged Cupids! fly,
Dart like lightning thro' the sky:
Would ye in marble temples dwell,
The dear one to my arms compel;
Bring her in bands of myrtle ty'd;
Bid her forget, and bid her hide
All her scorn and all her pride.
Would ye that your slave repay
A smoaking hecatomb each day?
O restore
The beauteous Goddess I adore!
O restore, with all her charms,
The faithless vagrant to my arms!
SONG FOR THE LUTE.
GENTLY, my Lute! move ev'ry string,
Soft as my sighs reveal my pain,
While I, in plaintive numbers, sing
Of slighted vows and cold disdain.
In vain her airs, in vain her art,
In vain she frowns, when I appear; Thy notes shall melt her frozen heart; She cannot hate if she can hear.
And see, she smiles! thro' all the groves
Triumphant Iö-Pæans sound:
Clap all your wings, ye little Loves!
Ye sportive Graces! dance around.
Ye list'ning Oaks! bend to my song;
Not Orpheus play'd a nobler lay:
Ye Savages! about me throng;
Ye Rocks! and harder hearts! obey.
She comes, she comes, relenting fair!
To fill with joy my longing arms;
What faithful lover can despair
Who thus with verse and music charms?
A DAINTY NEW BALLAD, Occasioned by a Clergyman's Widow of seventy years of age being married to a young Exciseman.
THERE liv'd in our good town
A relict of the gown,
A chaste and humble dame, Who, when her man of God Was cold as any clod,
Dropp'd many a tear in vain.
But now, good people! learn all,
No grief can be eternal;
Nor is it meet, I ween,
That folks should always whimper;
There is a time to simper,
As quickly shall be seen.
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