THE History of Love,  
A POEM: IN A LETTER TO A LADY.   

THE HISTORY OF LOVE.  
A POEM: IN A Letter to a Lady.  
By Mr. CHARLES HOPKINS.  
Est quoque Carminibus meritas celebrare Puellas Dos mea,— Ovid.  
— Utinam modo dicere possem, Carmina digna dea, certè est dea carmina digna.  
Ibid.  
LONDON: Printed by J. Dawks, for Jacob Tonson at the Judge's Head, near the Inner-Temple-Gate in Fleetstreet. M DC XC V.   

To Her GRACE THE DUCHESS OF GRAFTON.  
Madam,  
BEauty, as it is both the Theme, and Inspirer of Poetry, so it ought to be the Patroness too; and a Poem of Love should in Justice be sacred to none but the loveliest: it would therefore be adoring a false Deity, should I offer up this at any Shrine but Yours.  
As it is the best I can do, and writ on the most pleasing Subject, I was resolved to lay it at the Feet of the most Beautiful, and had I been myself at a loss where to fix, the Universal Opinion of the World would have directed me, and pointed out your Grace for the Patroness; while the Poem shall last, (and a Poem of Love ought to last longer than any other) succeeding Ages shall read, that your Grace was the Ornament of this Age.  
'Tis an innocent and harmless Ambition in Poets, whose only design in all they do, is the pleasing others, and in doing that, please themselves best; and as Beauty is the chief Object they bend their Studies to delight; all Poets ought to aspire to please your Grace in particular.  
That Ambition, is the best Excuse I can make for my presumption in this Dedication; since I am unknown to your Grace, and perhaps, even unheard of yet; but what is my Crime, is at the same time my Plea for Pardon; or rather it is my Merit. The Athenians, when they Dedicated an Altar to the unknown God, showed more Devotion, and directed their Devotion to a truer Deity, than when they Adored the many they knew.  
That I might be sure of something Acceptable in this Offering, and not fail to Delight in a Poem of Love, where all aught to be delightful, I have taken all the most moving tender Things, that Ovid and Tibullus said to their Mistresses, to say to Mine; nor will I allow it to be a Theft, since I doubt not, as it was their Love that inspired them with those Thoughts, Mine would have infused the same into me; and no man that thinks naturally of Love, can avoid running into the same Thoughts with them.  
I have borrowed the Examples to every Passion, from those Stories which I thought the most pleasing in Ovid, where certainly the most pleasing were to be met with: Some few places in every Story I have Translated, but for the most part, I have only kept him in View; I have gone on with him, and left him, where I thought it proper, and by that means have avoided the Absurdities of his Metamorphoses; save only that of Pigmalion's Statue, but that was a Metamorphoses that pleased me.  
It was a delightful Surprise, to see Life breathed into an inanimate Beauty, as it would be a kill Affliction to see it taken away from one already animated: It would occasion as much Joy and Wonder, to have a Duchess of GRAFTON made by Art, (if Art could do it) as it would cause Consternation to have the Gods unmake one. But those Miracles of Art are now ceased; and none but the Heavenly Artist could have Drawn You, who has Drawn You so, that he has left the Painter, and the Poet at a loss to Copy You.  
As to the Succcess of this POEM, I hope I am secure, since it is Sacred in general to the Fair Sex, and committed in particular to the Protection of the Fairest; if they are once pleased, who will dare to find fault? or disoblige them, by disliking what they approve? Under the shelter of your Grace's Patronage, I shall stand, like Aeneas, guarded by the Goddess of Love, and no Diomedes shall be found as desperate as the first to Wound me through You. Thus, as all Dedicating Poets, who write more to raise their own Reputation than their Patrons, I have taken the most effectual means to Establish mine; and doubt not to make a strong Party, since every Lover will defend what is sacred to the Lovely.  
Your Grace's  
most Devoted,  
most Humble Servant,  
Charles Hopkins.   

THE History of Love,  
A POEM: IN A LETTER TO A LADY.   

The HISTORY OF LOVE.  
A POEM: In a Letter to a LADY.  

YE Woods, and wild's, serene and blessed retreats,  
At once the Lovers, and the Muse's seats.  
To you I fly, to You, ye sacred groves,  
To tell my wondrous tale of wondrous Loves.  
Thee, Delia, thee, shall every Shepherd sing,  
With thy dear name the neighbouring Woods shall ring.  
No Name but thine shall on their Barks be found,  
With none but thine, shall echoing Hills resound.  
My Verse, thy matchless Beauties shall proclaim,  
Till thine outrivals Sacharissa's Fame.  
My Verse, shall make thee live while Woods shall grow,  
While Stars shall shine, and while the Seas shall flow.  
While there remains alive a tender Maid,  
Or Amorous Youth, or Lovesick Swain to read.  
Others may artfully the Passions move,  
In me alone 'tis natural to love:  
While the World sees me write in such a strain,  
As shows, I only feel, what others feign.  
Thou darling of my Youth, my Life's delight,  
By day my Vision, and my Dream by Night.  
Thou, who alone dost all my Thoughts infuse,  
And art at once, my Mistress, and my Muse.  
Inspired from thee, flows every sacred line,  
Thine is the Poetry, the Poet thine.  
Thy Service shall my only business be,  
And all my life employed in pleasing thee.  
Crowned with my Songs of thee, each day shall move,  
And every listening Sun hear nought but Love.  
With flowing numbers, every page shall roll,  
Where, as you read my Verse, receive my Soul.  
Should Sense, and Wit, and Art, refuse to join,  
In all I write, and fail my great design.  
Yet with such Passion shall my Lines be crowned,  
And so much softness in my Poem found;  
Such moving tenderness, the World shall see,  
Love could have been described by none but me,  
Let Dryden from his works with Justice claim,  
Immortal Praise; I from my Sacred Flame,  
Draw all my Glory, challenge all my Fame.   

Believe me Delia, Lovers have their Wars,  
And Cupid has his Camp, as well as Mars.  
That Age which suits a Soldier best, will prove  
The fittest for the sharp Fatigues of Love.  
None but Young Men the toils of War can bear,  
None but Young Men can serve and please the fair.  
Youth, with the Foe maintains the vigorous fight,  
Youth, gives the longing Maid the full delight.  
On either hand, like hardship it sustains,  
Great are Soldiers, great the Lover's pains.  
Th' event of War, no Gen'ral can foreknow,  
And that, alas! of Love is doubtful too.  
In various Fields, whatever Chance shall fall,  
The Soldier must resolve to bear it all.  
With the like constancy must Lovers wait,  
Enduring bad, and hoping better Fate.  
Through doubts, and fears, desires, and wishes tossed,  
Undaunted, they must strain to reach the coast.  
All will a while look hideous to their eye,  
The threatening storm still thickening in the Sky,  
No sight of Land, no friendly Harbour nigh.  
Yet through all this, the venturous Lover steers,  
To reap the Golden Crop that Beauty bears.  
So the bold Mariners the Seas explore,  
Tho' Winds blow hard, and Waves like Thunder roar,  
Rather than live in Poverty on Shoar.  
Emboldened thus, let every Youth set Sail,  
And trust to Fortune for a prosperous gale:  
Let them launch boldly from the lazy Shore,  
Nor fear a Storm which will at last blow o'er.  
Set all the Reins to all their Passions free,  
Give Wings to their Desires; and love like me.   

Happy that Youth, who when his Stars incline  
His Soul to Love, can make a choice like mine.  
Admiration.   

Thee, Delia, all that see thee must admire,  
And mankind in its own despite desire.  
As a Blind Man, restored to sudden Sight,  
Starts in a-maze at the first flash of Light.  
So was I struck, such sudden wonder knew,  
When my eyes dazzled with the sight of you.  
I saw whatever could inflame desire,  
Parch up the Veins, and set the Blood on fire.  
From every Charm, the pointed Lightning came,  
And fast, as they dispersed, I caught the Flame.  
Like Stars your glittering eyes were seen to shine,  
And roll with motions that were all divine.  
Where Majesty, and softness, mingled meet,  
And show a Soul, at once, sublime, and sweet.  
I gazed, and as I gazed, from every view,  
New Wonders, I descried, new Passion drew.  
Nor were the Charms less powerful of your Tongue,  
My ravished Soul on every accent hung,  
Glowed when you spoke, and melted when you Sung.  
Those Lips unopened, cannot fail to move,  
But Silently are eloquent in Love;  
That Face, and Neck, those Shoulders, Hands, and Arms,  
Each Limb, each Feature, has peculiar Charms.  
Each of itself might singly win a Soul,  
And never need th'assistance of the whole.  
On this one Part a Poet's praise might dwell,  
Did not this other part deserve as well.  
Beauty is surely near allied to Wit,  
Of which none can the just description hit;  
By their own selves they may be shown the best,  
And only are in being seen, expressed.  
Beautye's true Charms, no Poem can present,  
Which but imperfectly are done in Paint.  
That too, comes short of life, and only takes  
Faint images of those which nature makes.    

THE STORY OF PERSEUS AND ANDROMEDA: In Imitation of part of that in the Fourth Book OF OVID's METAMORPHOSES.  
PRopitious chance led Perseus once to view  
The fairest Piece that ever Nature drew;  
Chained on a rocky Shore, the Virgin stood,  
Naked, and whiter than the foaming Flood;  
Whom, as he coursed the confines of the Sky  
Amazed he saw, and kept his wondering Eye  
So fixed, he had almost forgot to sly.  
Had not the Winds dispersed her flowing Hair,  
And held it waving in the liquid Air;  
Or had not streams of Tears apace rolled down  
Her lovely Cheeks, he would have thought her Stone.  
Straight he precipitates his hasty flight,  
Impatient to attain a nearer sight.  
Now, all at once, he feels the raging Fires,  
Sees all the Maid, and all he sees, admires.  
With awe and wonder, mixed with love and fear,  
He stands as motionless as shame made her.  
Urged on at last, but still by slow degrees,  
Loath to offend, he draws to what he sees.  
Oh! Why, he cries, most matchless Fair-one, why  
Are you thus used? Can you be doomed to die?  
Have you done any Gild? that guilt relate.  
How can such Beauty merit such a Fate?  
I am thy Champion, and espouse thy Cause;  
In thy defence, the thunderer's Offspring draws.  
Say, if thou'rt rescued by the Son of Jove,  
Say, for thy Life, wilt thou return thy Love?  
The bashful Virgin no return affords,  
But sends ten thousand Sighs, instead of Words:  
With Grief, redoubled with her Shame, she mourns,  
She weeps, he joys, she blushes, and he burns.  
In Chains extended at her length she lay,  
While he with transport took a full survey.  
Fain would her Hands her conscious Blushes hide,  
But that the Fetters which they wore, denied.  
What could she do? all that she could, she did;  
For drowned in floods of Tears, her Eyes she hid.  
Much urged to speak, she turned her bashful look  
Far as she could aside, and trembling spoke:  
My Mother, conscious of her Beauty, strove  
(Alas! too conscious) with the Wife of Jove:  
Who by a cruel, and unjust Decree,  
To punish her, takes this revenge on me.  
Here am I doomed a dreadful Monster's prey,  
Who now, now, now is issuing from the Sea.  
Haste, generous Youth, our common Foe subdue;  
And if you save my Life, I live for you.  
Thus spoke the Maid, half dying with her fears,  
When, lo! the Monster from the Sea appears.  
The dauntless Heröe mounts his flying Horse,  
And o'er the Waves directs his airy course.  
Let him, alone, his Victory pursue;  
For dreadful War has nothing here to do.  
This short Account will Lovesick Swains suffice;  
He slew his Foe, and straight received his Prize.  
Thrice happy Youth, too fortunately blest;  
Who only came, and conquered, and possessed.  
None of the pangs of Love your bliss annoyed;  
You but beheld, admired, and so enjoyed.  
Desire.  
All other Lovers longer Toils sustain;  
Desires, Hopes, Jealousies, an endless Train.   

THE STORY OF PYGMALION: Imitated from the Tenth Book OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.  
How thou art envied, let Pygmalion prove;  
Who by a Miracle obtained his Love:  
Who living in an Age, when Women led  
The lewdest Lives, all Shame, and Honour fled;  
For a long tune, declined the Nuptial-Bed.  
He saw them all debauched with monstrous Crimes,  
No Virtuous Maid, no Delia, bless the Times.  
Had she lived then, his skill had ne'er been shown,  
Nor the strange Miracle that crowned it, known.  
There had he fixed, not formed his fancied Maid;  
Nor fond been by his own Art betrayed.  
The Nymph in polished Ivory glittered bright,  
So smooth, she seemed too slippery for his sight.  
So curious was her shape, so just her frame,  
So quick her Eyes appeared, so full of flame,  
They would have rolled, if not restrained by shame.  
From his strange Art, the Statue had received  
Such lively strokes, one would have thought it lived.  
Even he himself could hardly, hardly know,  
But doubted long, whether it lived, or no.  
Yet from her as she was, he gathered Fires;  
And fierce, and boundless were his mad Desires.  
He felt her Flesh, (his Fancy thought it such,)  
And feared to hurt her with too rude a touch.  
He kissed her, with belief so strong and vain,  
That he imagined how she kissed again.  
Now makes his Court, his mad Addresses moves  
And tells a long, fond tale, how well he loves.  
Presents her now, with all he thought might please,  
With precious Gums distilled from weeping trees  
Small Singing Birds, who strain their Tunefu Throats,  
And hovering round, repeat their pretty Notes  
With sweetest Flowers he crowns her lovely head  
And lays her on the softest, downy Bed.  
In richest Robes his charming Idol dressed,  
Bright sparkling Gems, adorn her neck, and Breast,  
And she— looked well in all, but looked when Naked best.  
Now Venus, kept her Feast, a goodly train,  
Of Lovesick Youths, frequent, and fill her Fame.  
The Snow-white Heifers, fall by sacred strokes,  
While with rich Gums the loaded Altar smokes.  
Among the rest the hopeless Lover stands,  
Tears in his eyes, his Offerings in his hands,  
More furious than before he feels his Fires,  
Even his despair redoubles his desires.  
A long, long time, his Orisons deferred,  
He durst not pray, lest he should not be heard.  
Till urged by Love; his timorous Silence broke,  
Thus (but still tim'rously) at last he spoke.  
If you, ye Sacred Powers that rule above,  
And you great Goddess of propitious Love.  
If all we want, is placed within your power,  
And you can give whatever we implore.  
Exert Your Godhead now, now lend your aid,  
Give me the Wife I wish, one like he said,  
But durst not say, give me my Ivory Maid.  
This finished; thrice auspicious Flashes rise,  
And wreaths of curling Smoke, ascended thrice.  
Half hoping now, and yet still half afraid,  
With doubtful joy he seeks his Ivory Maid.  
Dotes more than ever on her fancied charms,  
And closely clasps her in his longing arms.  
When all at once, with joy and wonder filled,  
He feels her stubborn sides begin to yield.  
Soft, was her Bosom grown, her throbbing Breast,  
Heaved with her Breath, swelled gently to be pressed  
Surprised, and glad, he feels her oft, and oft;  
And more, and more, perceives her warm and soft.  
Warm were her Lips, and every pointed Kiss,  
With melting touches, met, and moistened his.  
Her Blood now circled, and her Pulses beat,  
And life at last enjoyed a settled Seat.  
Slowly she lifts, her new, and fearful sight,  
And sees at once, her Lover, and the Light.  
An unborn Maid, both Life, and Lover found,  
And he too, had his desperate wishes crowned.  
Desperate indeed; what prospect could he see,  
Or how at first, hope any more than me?  
Hope.   

THE STORY OF Hippomanes AND ATALANTA: In Imitation of part of that in the Tenth Book OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.  
HIppomanes alone with Hope inspired,  
Might well rejoice to find his wishes fired,  
Since well assured of all his wish desired.  
His Passion was all Life, all Soul, and Flame,  
He dauntless to the Fatal Barriers came.  
With Joy his vanquished Rivals he beheld,  
Assured to win, where all besides had failed.  
He saw the lovely Nymph outfly the Wind,  
And leave her Breathless Suitors far behind;  
Saw Atalanta, swift as Lightning, pass,  
Yet soft as Zephirs, sweep along the Grass.  
He knew the Law, whose Cruelty decreed,  
That every Youth, who lost the Race should bleed.  
Yet, if like them, he could not run so fast,  
He saw her worth the dying for, at last.  
Her every charm, his praise, and wonder moved,  
And still the more he praised, the more he loved.  
Now had he viewed the last unhappy strife,  
And seen the vanquished Youth resign his Life.  
When with his Love transported from his place,  
Lest any other first should claim the Race.  
Rising he runs regardless of their Fate,  
And presses where the panting Virgin sat.  
With eyes all sparkling with his Hope, and love,  
And such a look, as could not fail to move.  
Tell me he cries, why barbarous Beauty, why  
Are you so pleased to see these wretches die?  
Why have you with my feeble Rivals strove,  
Betrayed to Death by their too daring Love.  
With me, a less unequal Race begin,  
With me, exert your utmost speed to win,  
By my defeat, you will your Conquests crown,  
And in my fall, establish, your renown.  
Then undisturbed you may your Conquests boast,  
For none will dare to strive, when I have lost.  
Thus while the Prince his bold defiance spoke,  
She eyes him with a soft relenting look.  
Already does his distant fate deplore,  
Concerned for him, tho' ne'er concerned before▪  
Doubtful she stands, and knows not what to choose,  
And cannot wish to win, nor yet to lose.  
But murmurs to herself: Ye powers divine,  
How hard, alas! a destiny is mine?  
Why must I longer such a Law obey,  
And daily throw so many Lives away?  
Why must I by their Deaths my Nuptials shun?  
Or else by marrying be myself undone?  
Why must I still my cruelty pursue?  
Why must a Prince, so charming, perish too?  
Such is his Youth, his Beauty, Valour such,  
Even to myself I seem not worth so much?  
Fly lovely Stranger, ere 'tis yet too late,  
Fly from thy too, ah! too, too certain fate.  
I would not send thee hence, I would not give,  
Such a Command; couldst thou but stay, and live.  
Thou with some fairer Maid, will't happier be,  
The fairest Maid, might be in Love with thee.  
So many Suitors have already bled,  
Who rashly vent'red for my Nuptial Bed.  
I fear lest thou shouldst run like them in vain,  
Shouldst lose like them, and ah! like them be slain.  
Yet why should he alone my pity move?  
It is but pity sure; it is not love.  
I wish bold Youth, thou wouldst the race decline,  
Or rather wish, thy Speed could equal mine.  
Would thou hadst never seen this fatal place,  
Nor I, alas! thy too, too charming face.  
Were I by rigorous Fate allowed to wed,  
Thou shouldst alone enjoy, and bless my Bed.  
Were it but left to my own partial choice,  
Thou of all mankind shouldst obtain my voice.  
'Twas here she paused, when urged with long delay,  
The Trumpets sound to hasten them away:  
Straight at the Summons is the Race begun,  
And side by side, for some short time they run.  
While the Spectators from the Barriers cry,  
Fly prosperous Youth, with all thy vigour fly,  
Make haste, make haste, thy utmost speed enforce,  
Love give thee wings to win the Noble course.  
See how unwillingly the Virgin flies,  
Pursue, and save thy Life, and seize the prize.  
'Tis doubtful yet, whether the general Voice  
Made the glad Youth, or Virgin most rejoice.  
Oft, in the swiftest fury of the Race,  
TheNymph would slacken her impetuous pace,  
And halt, and gaze, and almost fasten on his face.  
Then fleet away again, as swift as wind,  
Not without Sighs to leave him so behind.  
By this; he saw his Strength would ne'er prevail,  
But still he had a Charm that could not fail.  
From his loose Robe a Golden Apple drawn,  
With force he hurled, along the Flowery Lawn.  
Straight at the sight the Virgin could not hold,  
But starts aside to catch the rolling Gold.  
He takes the wished occasion, passes by,  
While all the Field, resounded Shouts of Joy.  
This she recovers with redoubled haste,  
Till he far off the second Apple cast.  
Again the Nymph diverts her near pursuit,  
And running back secures the Tempting Fruit;  
But her strange speed recovers her again,  
Again the foremost in the Flowery Plain.  
Now near the Goal he summons all his might,  
And prays to Venus to direct him right,  
With his last Apple to retard her flight.  
Tho' sure to lose if she the race declined,  
For such a Bribe the Victory she resigned.  
Pleased that she lost, to the glad Victor's arms,  
She gives the Prize, and yields her Dear-bought Charms.  
He by resistless Gold the Conquest gained,  
In vain he ran, till that the Race obtained.  
Possessed of that, he could not but subdue,  
For Gold, alas! would conquer Delia too.  
Yet oh! thou best Beloved, thou loveliest Maid,  
Be not by too much Avarice betrayed.  
Prise thyself high, no easy purchase prove,  
Nor let a Fool with Fortune buy thy Love.  
Like Atalanta's Conqueror let him be,  
Brave, Generous, Young, from every failing free  
And to complete him, let him Love like me.  
What pains against my wretched self I take?  
Even I myself, my Jealousies awake.  
Such men there are, blest with such Gifts Divine,  
Who if they knew thee would be surely thine.  
Jealousy.  
How wretched then, alas! should Daphnis grow?  
Gods! how the very thought distracts him now?  
Even now, perhaps some Youth with happier Charms,  
Lies folded in the faithless Delia's Arms.  
Even now, the Favours you denied me, seem,  
To be too prodigally heaped on him.  
Close by your side, all languishing he stands,  
And on your Panting Bosom warms his Hands.  
Straight in your Lap he lays his envied Head,  
And makes the Shrine of Love his Sacred Bed.  
Then glows his Ravished Soul with pointed Flames,  
And thoughts of Heavenly Joys, fill all his Dreams.  
Let not your Passion be to me revealed,  
But if you love, keep him you love concealed.   

THE STORY OF Shafalus and Procris, Imitated from the Tenth Book OF OVID's METAMORPHOSES.  

FRom Cephalus' Tragic Story, read  
What fatal mischiefs Jealousy may breed.  
Hear that unhappy wretched Huntsman tell,  
How by his hands his much loved Procris fell.  
Hear him lamenting his mischance complain,  
In the soft Ovid's sadly charming strain:   

Happy a while, thrice happy was my Life,  
Blest in a Beautiful and Virtuous Wife.  
Love joined us first, and Love made Life so sweet,  
We praised the Gods, that 'twas our lot to meet.  
Our Breasts glowed gently with a mutual Flame,  
The same were our desires, our fears the same.  
Whatever one did, the other would approve,  
For one our liking was, as one our love.  
Then happy days were crowned with happier nights,  
And some few months rolled on in full delights.  
Joys crowded to appear, and pleasures ran,  
A while in circles, ere our Woes began.  
Till I one fatal morn the Chase pursued,  
Of a Wild Boar through an adjacent Wood  
Where, as I hunted eager on my Prey,  
Aurora stopped me in my hasty way.  
You may believe I do not, dare not feign,  
(For Mis'ry never made a Man so vain.)  
She tho' a Goddess, straight began to move  
A fruitless suit, and vainly talked of Love.  
Tho' she looked bright as when she shines on high  
In all the glories of a Morning Sky.  
Tho' earlier than the Sun's, her beams display,  
And show the first approaches of the day.  
I told her, Procris all my Soul possessed,  
That she alone reigned Sovereign of my Breast,  
Which never would admit another Guest.  
Enjoy thy Procris then, the Goddess cried.  
Whom thou shalt one day wish th' hadst ne'● enjoyed.  
Stung with her words, with doubts, and fears oppress't,  
A sudden Jealousy destroys my rest,  
Mads all my Brain, and Poisons all my Breast.  
I thought the Sex all false, even Procris too,  
Again I thought, she could not but be true.  
Her Youth, and Beauty, kindled anxious cares,  
But her known Chastity condemned my fears.  
But then my absence does again revive,  
And keep the Torturing Fancy still alive.  
I thought her Faith too firmly fixed to fall,  
Yet a true Lover is afraid of all.  
I knew not what to think, but straight I go,  
Resolved to cure, or to complete my Woe.  
An Habit different from my own I took,  
While with cursed aid Aurora changed my look.  
To Athens straight, unknown by all I came,  
●●'n to myself, I scarce could seem the same.   

Hardly I got admission to my House,  
But far, far harder, to my weeping Spouse.  
The House itself from aught of Blame was free,  
And every place expressed its grief for me.  
A dismal Silence reigned through every room,  
To mourn my loss, already safe at home.  
Even that sad Pomp of Woe, some Charms could boast,  
But when my Procris came, she charmed m● most.  
Black were her Robes, her Solemn Pace was slow  
Her Dress was careless, yet becoming too.  
A virtuous Grief dwelled deeply in her Face,  
But matchless Beauty gave that Grief a grace.  
Whole showers of Tears her streaming eyes 〈◊〉 fall,  
Yet something wondrous lovely shone through all  
Scarce could I at the Charming sight forbear  
From running to embrace my Mournful Fair,  
Scarce hold, from telling whom she saw (tho' altered) there.  
But yet at length my sirst Design pursued,  
With words I flattered, and with gifts I wooed.  
All the most moving Arguments I used,  
Oft prayed, and pressed, but was as oft refused.  
She said another had before engrossed,  
All her affection, and my Suit was lost.  
Would any but a Madman farther try?  
But ah! that Mad, that desperate Fool was I.  
I grew the more industrious to destroy,  
Her matchless Truth, and ruin all my Joy.  
Redoubled Presents, and redoubled Vows,  
I made, and offered, to betray my Spouse.  
At last, her staggering Faith began to yield,  
And I'd just won the long disputed Field.  
Thy falsehood straight I cried, too late I see,  
False to thy Shafalus, for I am Herald  
Since you are Perjured, since my Procris grew,  
Forsworn, and false, what Woman can be true?  
She at these words almost of Sense bereaved,  
With sad confusion found herself deceived.  
Fixed on the ground she kept her downcast eye,  
And Silent with her Shame, made no reply.  
But to the Mountains like an Huntress hies,  
And for my sake from all mankind she flies.  
Which when I found, abandoned, and alone,  
My dearer half through my own Folly gone.  
Love fiercer than before began to burn,  
Till I was raging for my Wife's return.  
My Prayers dispatched with eagerness, & haste,  
That she would pardon all offences past,  
Found her as kind, as she was truly Chaste.  
She came, and crowned my Joys a second time,  
Forgot my Jealousy, forgave my Crime.  
'Twas then I thought my greatest Miseries o'er,  
But Fate it seems had worse, far worse in store.  
Soon as each early Sun began to rise,  
To glad th'enlightened earth, and gild the Skies.  
I with his first appearance, rise, and trace  
The Woods, and Hills, that yielded Game to chase.  
Alone I Hunt, a long, and tedious way,  
And seldom fail to kill sufficient Prey.  
Then spent with Toil, to cooler Shades retreat,  
And seek a Refuge from the Scorching heat.  
Where Pleasant Valleys breathe a freer Air,  
For my refreshment I address this Prayer.  
Come Air, I cry, joy of o'relaboured Swains,  
Come, and diffuse thyself through all my Veins.  
Breathe on my Burning Lips, and Feverish Breast,  
And reign at large an ever grateful Guest.  
Glide to, my Soul, and every vital part,  
Distil thyself upon my panting heart.  
By chance I other Blandishments bestow,  
Or Destiny decreed it should be so.  
As, O thou greatest pleasure of the Plains,  
Thou who asswagest all my raging pains.  
Thou, who dost Nature's richest Sweets excite,  
And mak'st me in these Desert Woods delight.  
Breathless, and Dead without thee should I be,  
For all the Life I have, I draw from thee.  
While this I Sung, some one who chanced to hear, (Prayer,  
Thought her a Nymph, to whom I made my  
And told my Procris of her Rival Air.  
She kind, good Soul, half dying at the news,  
Would now condemn me, now again excuse.  
Now hopes 'tis all a falsehood, now she fears,  
Suspects my Faith, as I suspected hers.  
Resolved at last to trust no busy tongue,  
But be herself the Witness of her wrong.  
When the next day with fatal haste came on,  
And I was to my loved diversion gone.  
She rose, and sought the solitary shade,  
Where after Hunting, I was daily laid.  
Close in a Thicket undiscerned she stood,  
When I took shelter in the Shady Wood  
Then stretching on the Grass my fainting weight,  
Come much loved Air, I cry, oh! come abate  
With thy sweet Breath this most immoderate heat.  
At this a sudden noise invades my ear,  
And rustling Boughs, showed something living there.  
I rashly thinking it some Savage Beast,  
Threw my unerring Dart with heedless haste  
Which pierced, Oh! Gods, my Procris through the Breast.  
She at the Wound, with fearful Shriekings fell,  
And I alas! knew the dear voice too well.  
Thither, distracted with my grief, I flew,  
To give my Dying Love, a sad adieu.  
All Bloody was her lately Snowy Breast,  
Her Soul was hastening to Eternal Rest.  
With Rage I tore my Robe, which close I bound,  
To stop the Blood, about the gaping Wound.  
What pardons did I beg? what Curses frame,  
For my Damned Fate, that was alone in blame?  
When weakly raising up her Dying head,  
With a faint Voice these few sad words she said.  
Draw nearer yet, dear Author of my Death,  
Hear my last Sighs, and snatch my parting Breath.  
But e'er I Dye, by all that's Sacred swear,  
That you will never let my Rival, Air,  
Profane my Bed, or find reception there.  
This I Conjure you by your Nuptial Vow,  
The Faith you gave me then, renew me now.  
By all your Love, if any Love remain,  
And by that Love, which dying I retain.  
Assure me but of this before I go,  
And I shall bless thee for the fatal blow.   

To her sad Speech abruptly I replied,  
In haste to show her Error ere she died.  
Quickly I ran the Tragic Story o'er,  
Which made her pleased, amidst the Pangs she bore:  
That done, she rolls in death her dizzy eyes,  
And with a Sigh, which I received, she dies.   

Here did the Youth his doleful Tale conclude,  
A Tale too doleful to be long pursued.  
But this ill chosen instance will not do,  
Unless my Delia could be Jealous too.  
But she, whenever I woo some other fair,  
Shows no resentment, and betrays no care.  
She sees me court another as unmoved,  
As she has always seen herself beloved.  
That dreadful thought redoubles all my fear,  
That drowns my hopes, and drives me to despair.  
Despair.  
No Foreign instance need of this be shown,  
To draw it best, I must describe my own.  
Tho' of this kind all Ages can produce  
Examples proper for the Mourning Muse;  
Yet all to me, must the first place resign,  
None ever was so just, so deep as mine.  
All day and night I sing, and all day long,  
I Love, and I Despair, makes all my Song.  
Revolving, days the same sad Music hear,  
Unchanged those Notes, I Love, and I Despair.  
To me, as to the Echo, Fate affords  
No power of Speech but for those doleful words.  
Some glimpse of Sun, some cheerful Beams appear  
Even through the gloomyest season of the Year.  
My clouded life admits no dawn of Light,  
No ray can pierce through my eternal Night.  
All there is dismal as the Shades beneath,  
And all is dark as Hell, and sad as Death.  
My anxious hours roll heavily away,  
Deprived of Sleep by night, and Peace by day.  
My Soul no respite from her Sufferings knows,  
And sees no end of her Eternal woes.  
In a long line they run for ever on,  
And still increase, and lengthen as they run.  
By flight to lose my ills in vain I try,  
From my despairing self I cannot fly.  
Where e'er I go, I bear about my Flame,  
In Cities, Countries, Seas, 'tis still the same.  
Scorched with my burning pains, I eat my house,  
And strive in open Air to seek repose.  
My Flames, like Torches shaken in open Air,  
Grow, with dilated heat, more furious there.  
Now to the most retired, remotest place,  
Even to obscurity, I sly for ease.  
Retirement still foments the raging fire, (spire  
And Trees, and Fields, and Floods and Verse con-  
To spread the flame and heighten the desire.  
Wildly I range the Woods, and trace the Groves,  
To every Oak I tell my hopeless Loves.  
Torn by my Passion, to the Earth I fall,  
I Kneel to all the Gods, I pray to all.  
Nothing but Echo answers to my Prayer,  
And she speaks nothing but Despair, Despair.  
From Woods and wild's, I no relief receive,  
But wander on, to try what Seas can give.  
Deep through the Tide, not knowing where I walk,  
To the deaf Winds, not knowing what, I talk:  
Mad as the foaming Main, aloud I rave,  
While every Tear keeps time with every Wave.    

THE STORY OF Orpheus and Eurydice, Imitated from the Tenth Book OF OVID's METAMORPHOSES.  

SO in old times, the Mournful Orpheus stood,  
Drowning his Sorrows in the Stygian Flood.  
Whose lamentable Story seems to be  
The nearest instance of a wretch like me.  
Already had he past the Courts of Death,  
And charmed with sacred Verse, the powers beneath.  
While Hell, with silent admiration hung  
On the soft Music of his Harp and Tongue,  
And the black Roofs restored the wondrous Song.  
No longer Tantalus essayed to sip  
The Springs that fled from his deluded Lip.  
Their Urn the fifty Maids no longer fill,  
Ixion leaned, and listened on his Wheel,  
And Sysiphus' Stone, for once stood still.  
The Ravenous Vulture had forsaken his Meal,  
And Titius felt his growing Liver heal.  
Relenting Fiends to torture Souls forbore,  
And Furies wept, who never wept before.  
All Hell in harmony was heard to move,  
With equal sweetness as the Spheres aLove.  
Nor longer was his charming prayer denied,  
All Hell consented to release his Bride.  
Yet could the Youth but short possession boast,  
For what his Poem gained, his passion lost:  
ere they restored her back to him, and Life,  
They made him on these Terms receive his Wife:  
If till he quite had passed the shades of Night,  
And reached the confines of aetherial Light;  
He turned to view his Prize; his wretched Prize  
Again was doomed to vanish from his Eyes.  
Long had he wandered on, and long forborn  
To look, but was at last compelled to turn.  
And now arrived where the Sun's piercing Ray  
Struck through the gloom, and made a doubtful day.  
Backwards his Eyes the impatient Lover cast  
For one dear look, and that one look his last.  
Strait from his sight flies his unhappy Wife,  
Who now lived twice, and twice was robbed of Life.  
In vain, to catch the fleeting shade he sought,  
She too in vain, bend backwards to be caught.  
Gods! what tumultuous raging passions tossed  
His anxious Heart, when he perceived her lost,  
How wildly did his dreadful Eyeballs roll?  
How did all Hell at once oppress his Soul?  
To what sad height was his distraction grown?  
How deep his just despair? how near my own?  
In vain with her he laboured to return,  
All he could do was to fit down and mourn,  
In vain, (but ne'er before in vain) he sings  
At once the saddest, and the sweetest things.   

Stay dear Eurydice he cries, ah! stay,  
Why fleets the lovely shade so sast away?  
Why am not I permitted to pursue,  
Why will not rigorous Hell receive me too?  
Already has she reached the farther shore,  
And I alas! allowed to pass no more;  
Imprisoned closer in the dismal coast,  
She's now, for ever, ever, ever lost.  
No Charms a second time can set her free,  
Hell has her now again; would Hell had me.  
From all his pains let Titius be released,  
And in his stead unhappyer Orpheus placed.  
He feels no torture, I'll refuse to bear,  
Her loss is worse than all he suffers there.  
Is this your Bounty then? ye Powers below!  
And these the short-lived Blessings you bestow?  
Why did you such a cruel Covenant make?  
Which you but too well knew I needs must break.  
Ah! by this Artifice, too late, I sinned  
Your envious nature never was inclined  
To be entirely good, or throughly kind.  
Had you persisted to resuse the grant,  
I should not then have known the double want.  
This was contrived by some malicious power,  
To swell my Woes, and make my miseries more.  
Plunged in despair far deeper than at first,  
And blest a short, short while, to be for ever cursed.  
Ah! yet again relent, again restore  
My wretched Bride, be bounteous as before.  
Ah! let the force of Verse as powerful be  
O'er you, as was the force of Love o'er me.  
And the dear forfeit once again resign,  
Which but for too much Love had still been mine.  
By that immense and awful sway you bear,  
That silent horror that inhabits here.  
By these vast Realms, and that unquestioned right,  
By which you rule this Everlasting Night.  
By these my Tears and prayers, which once could move,  
Once more I beg you to release my Love.  
Let her a little while with me remain,  
A little while, and she is yours again.  
The date of mortal Life is finished soon,  
Swift is the Race, and short the time to run.  
Inevitable Fate your Night secures,  
And she, and I, and all, at last are yours.   

So sung the charming Youth in such a strain,  
But sung, and charmed the second time in vain.  
No longer could he move the Powers below,  
Lost were his Numbers then, as mine are now.  
Torn with despair he leaves the Stygian Lakes,  
And back to light a loathsome Journey takes.  
No Light could cheer him in his cruel woes,  
Who bears about his Grief wherever he goes.  
In sacred Verse his sad complaints he vents,  
And all the Day, and all the Night laments.  
Incessantly he sings, whose moving Song  
Draws Trees, and Stones, and listening Herds along.  
The Sylvan Gods, and Wood-Nymphs stood around,  
And melting Maids were ravished at the sound.  
All heard the wondrous Notes, and all that heard,  
With utmost Art addressed the mournful Bard.  
Not all their Charms his Constancy could move,  
Who fled the thoughts of any second Love.  
When mad to see him slight their raging Fire,  
To Mortal hate, converting fierce desire,  
With their own Hands, they made the Youth expire.  
Such proofs my Delia would I gladly give,  
For thee I'd die, without thee will not live.  
I've felt already the severest smart  
Death can inflict, for it was death to part.  
The Parting.  
What Souls about to leave their Bodies bear,  
Forced to forsake their long-loved Mansions there.  
The dying anguish, the convulsive pain,  
And all the racking tortures they sustain.  
And most of all, the doubt, the dreadful fear,  
When thrust out thence, to go they know not where.  
My Soul, such pangs, such sad distractions knew,  
Forced by despairing Love to part with you.  
Fixed on that Face where I could ever dwell  
Charmed into silence by some Magic Spell,  
I sighed and shook, and could not say fare well.  
Down my sad Cheeks, did Tears in torrents roll,  
And Death's cold damp sat heavy on my Soul.  
My trembling Eyes swum in a native Flood,  
As fast as they wept Tears, my Heart wept Blood.  
All signs of desperate grief possess't my face,  
My sinking Feet seemed rooted to their place,  
And scarce could bear me to the last embrace.  
Gods! where was then my Soul? that parting kiss,  
Was both the last and dearest Taste of Bliss.  
Ah! since that fatal time I could not boast,  
Of Love, or Life, or Soul; all, all is lost.  
When the last Moment that I had to stay  
Called me like one condemned to Death away.  
With staggering Steps, I did my Path pursue,  
Yet oft I tarned to take another view,  
Oft ga●'d, and sighed, and murmured out adieu.    

THE PARTING OF Achilles and Deidamia.  
A Chills had a long time lain disguised like a Woman, in the Court of Nicomedes King of Bythinia, making use of that Habit, the better to carry on his Amours with Deidamia, Nicomedes' Daughter, but he was at last discovered by the Subtlety of Ulysses; who putting a Sword into his hands, which he wielded too dexterously for a Woman, so betrayed him, and carried him to the Trojan War, the Greeks having been warned by the Oracle, that Troy should never be taken, unless Achilles assisted at the Siege.  

THUS young Achilles in Bythinia's Court,  
Had made a private and a long resort.  
Dressed like a Maid, the better to improve,  
With his fair Princess, undiscovered Love.  
Where Hours and Days, he might secure receive,  
The mighty Bliss that mutual Love could give.  
Where in full Joys the Youthful Pair remained,  
And nought a while, but Laughing Pleasures reigned.  
Till at the last, the Gods were envious grown,  
To see the Bliss of Man surpass their own.  
All Greece was now with Helen's Rape alarmed,  
And all its Princes, to revenge her armed.  
When spiteful Powers, foretold them, their descent  
Would be in vain, unless Achilles went.  
In vain, they might the Phrygian Coasts invade,  
Scale Troy in vain, no onset could be made,  
That should succeed without that Hero's aid.  
And now Ulysses by a crafty slight,  
Had found him out in his Disguises spite.  
Who tho' betrayed by his unhappy Fate,  
Had too much sense of Honour to retreat.  
Which, when his charming Deidamia knew,  
She to her late Discovered I over flew.  
On his dear Neck, her Snowy Arms she hung,  
And streaming Tears, a while, restrained her Tongue.  
But at the last, her dismal Silence broke,  
These mournful words, the weeping Princess spoke.   

Whither, ah! whither would Achilles slay?  
From all he's dearest to, from love, and me?  
Are not my Charms the same? the same their power?  
Have I lost mine? or, has Bellona more?  
Oh! let me not so poorly be forsaken,  
But view me, view me, with your usual look.  
Would you, unkind, from these Embraces break?  
Is Glory grown so strong? or I so weak?  
Glory is not your only Call I fear,  
You go to meet some other Mistress there.  
Go then, ingrateful, tho' from me you fly,  
You'll never meet with one, so fond as I.  
But some Camp Mistress lavish of her Charms,  
Devoted to a Thousand Rival Arms.  
Then will you think, when she is common grown,  
On Deidamia who was all your own.  
Thus will I chasp thee to my panting Breast,  
And thus detain thee to my Bosom pressed.  
And while I fold thee thus, and thus dispense  
These Kisses to restore thy wandering sense,  
What dismal sound of War shall snatch thee hence.  
What tho'the Gods have ordered you should go,  
Or Greece return inglorious from her Foe?  
Have not the self same cruel Gods, decreed  
That if you went, you should as surely Bleed?  
Then since your Fate is destined to be such,  
Ah! think, can any Troy be worth so much?  
Let Greece, what e'er she please for Vengeance give,  
Secure at home shall my Achilles live.  
Troy, built by Heavenly hands, may stand, or fall,  
You never shall obey the fatal call.  
Your Deidamia swears you shall not go,  
Life would be dear to you, if she were so.  
If not your own, at least my safety prize,  
For with Achilles, Deidamia dies.   

All this, and more, the lovely mournful Maid  
Told the sad Youth, who Sighed at all she said.  
Yet would he not his resolution break,  
Where all his Fame and Honour lay at stake.  
Now would he think on Arms, but when he gave,  
A side-long glance on her he was to leave.  
Then his tumultuous Thoughts began to jar,  
And Love, and Glory held a doubtful War.  
Till with a deep-drawn Sigh, and mighty course  
Of Tears, which nothing else but Love could force.  
To the Dear Maid he turns his wat'ry eyes,  
And to her sad Discourse, as sad replies.   

Thou late best Blessing of my Joyful Heart,  
Now grown my grief, since I must now depart.  
Behold the Pangs I bear, look up, and see  
How much I grieve to go; and comfort me.  
Curse on that cunning traitor's smooth deceit,  
Whose craft has made me to my ruin, great.  
Curse on that Artifice by which I fell,  
Curse on these hands for wielding Swords so well.  
Tho'I should ne'er so fit for Battle prove,  
All my Ambition's to be fit for Love.  
In his soft Wars, I would my Life beguile,  
With thee contend in the transporting toil,  
Ravished to read my Triumph in thy smile.  
Boldly I'd strive, yet even when Conquering, yield  
To thee the glory of the Bloodless Field.  
With liquid Fires, melt thy rich Beauties down,  
Rifle thy Wealth, yet give thee all my own.  
So should our Wars be Rapture and Delight,  
But now I'm summoned to another Fight.  
'Tis not my fault, that I am forced away,  
But when my Honour calls, I must obey.  
Durst I not Death, and every Danger brave,  
I were not worthy of the Bliss I have.  
More hazards, than another, would I meet,  
Only to lay more Laurels at your feet.  
Oh! do not fear, that I should faithless prove,  
For You, my only Life, have all my Love.  
The thought of You shall help me to subdue,  
I'll conquer faster to return to You.  
But if my Honours should be laid in Dust,  
And I must fall, as Heaven has said I must.  
Even in my Death, my only grief, will be,  
That I for ever shall be snatched from thee.  
That, that alone, occasions all my Fears,  
Shakes my resolves, and melts me into Tears.  
My beating Heart pants to thee, as I speak,  
And wishes, rather than depart, to break.  
Feel how it trembles with a Panic fright,  
Sure it will never fail me thus in Fight.  
I cannot longer hold this fond Discourse,  
For now the Trumpets Sound our sad Divorce.  
Sound every Trumpet there, beat every Drum,  
Use all your Charms to make Achilles come.  
Farewell, alas! I have not time to tell  
How wondrous loath I part, once more farewell.  
Remember me, as I'll remember you,  
Like me be constant, and like me be true;  
Gods! I shall ne'er be gone; Adieu, adieu,  
Adieu.   

Absence.  
Happy that Amorous Youth, whose Mistress hears,  
His swelling Sighs, and sees his falling Tears.  
What Savage Maid, her Pity can deny  
A breaking Heart, and a still streaming Eye.  
Absent, alas! he spends them all in vain,  
While the Dear Cause is ignorant of his pain.  
Yet wretched as he is, he might be blest,  
Would he himself contribute to his rest.  
Would he resolve to struggle through the Net,  
And, but a while, endeavour to forget.  
But his Mad Thoughts run every passage o'er;  
And anxious Memory makes his Passion more.  
Perplexing Memory that renews the Scene  
Of his past Cares, and keeps him still in pain.  
Keeps a poor Wretch perpetually oppressed,  
And never lets unhappy Lovers rest.  
Le's them no Pangs, no cruel Sufferings lose,  
But heaps their past, upon their present Woes.  
Such was Leander's Memory, when removed,  
And sundered by the Seas, from all he loved.  
The gathered Winds, had wrought the Tempest high,  
Tossed up the Ocean, and obscured the Sky.  
And at this time, with an impetuous sway,  
Poured forth their Forces, and possessed the Sea.  
When the Bold Youth stood raging on the Beach,  
To view the much loved Coast he could not reach.  
His restless eyes ran all the distance o'er,  
And from afar discerned his Hero's Tower.  
Thrice, Naked in the Waves his Skill he tried,  
And strove, as he was used, to stem the Tide.  
But tumbling Billows threatened present wrack,  
And rising up against him, dashed him back.  
Then like a gallant Soldier, forced to go  
Full of brave Wrath from a prevailing Foe.  
Again to Town he makes his sad resort,  
To see what Ships would loosen from the Port.  
Finding but one durst Launch into the Seas,  
He writes a Letter, filled with Words like these.    

LEANDER'S Epistle to HERO, In Imitation of Part of that OF OVID.  

REad this; yet be not troubled when you read,  
Your Lover comes not, in his Letters stead.  
On you, all Health, all Happiness, attend,  
Which I would much, much rather bring than send.  
But now, those envious Storms obstruct my way,  
And only this bold Bark, durst put to Sea.  
I too had come, had not my Parents Spies  
Stood by to watch me with suspicious eyes.  
How many tedious days and nights, are past  
Since I was suffered to behold you last.  
Ye spiteful Gods, and Goddesses, who keep  
Your wat'ry Courts within the spacious deep.  
Why at this time, are all the Winds broke forth,  
Why swell the Seas beneath the furious North.  
'Tis Summer now, when all should be serene,  
The Sky's unclouded, undisturbed the Main,  
Winter is yet unwilling to appear,  
But you invert the Seasons of the Year▪  
Yet let me once attain the wished for Beach,  
Out of the now Malicious Neptune's reach.  
Then blow ye Winds; ye troubled Billows roar,  
Roll on your angry Waves, and lash the Shore.  
Ruffle the Seas, drive the Tempestuous Air,  
Be one continued Storm to keep me there.  
Ah! Hero, when to you my course is bend,  
I seem to slide along a sinooth descent.  
But in returning thence, I clamber up,  
And scale, methinks, some lofty Mountain's top.  
Why, when our Souls by mutual Love are joined,  
Why are we sundered by the Sea and Wind?  
Either, make my Abydos your retreat,  
Or let your Sestos be my much loved Seat.  
This Plague of Absence, I can bear no more,  
Come what can come, I'll shortly venture o'er.  
Not all the rage of Seas, nor force of Storms,  
Nothing but Death shall keep me from thy Arms.  
Yet may that Death, at least so friendly prove,  
To float me to the Coast of her I love.  
Let not the Thought occasion any fear,  
Doubt not, I will be soon, and safely, there.  
But till that time, let this employ your Hours,  
And show you, that I can be none but Yours.   

Meanwhile the Vessel from the Land withdrew,  
When Heaven took Pity on a Love so true.  
The Winds to blow, the Waves to toss forbore,  
In leaps the ravished Youth, and ventures o'er,  
With a smooth passage to the farther Shoar.  
Now to the Port the prosperous Lover drives,  
And safely after all his toils arrives.  
Dissolved in Bliss, he lies the livelong night,  
Melts, languishes, and dies in vast delight.  
But that delight my Muse forbears to sing,  
She knows the weakness of her Infant wing.  
As when the Painter strove to draw the chief  
Of all the Grecians, in his height of Grief;  
In every Limb the well-shaped Piece excelled,  
But coming to the Face his Pencil failed.  
There modestly he stayed, and held, for fear  
He should not reach the Woe he fancied there;  
But round the mournful Head a Veil he threw,  
That Men might guests, at what he could not show.  
So when our pleasure rises to excess,  
No Tongue can tell it, and no Pen express.  
Love will not have his mysteries revealed,  
And Beauty keeps the joys it gives concealed.  
And till those Joys my Delia lets me know,  
To me they shall continue ever so.   

Ah! Delia, would Indulgent Love decree,  
Thy faithful slave that Heaven of Bliss with thec.  
What then should be my Verse? what daring flights  
Should my Muse take? reach what Celestial heights?  
Now in despair, with drooping Notes she sings,  
No dawn of hope to raise liar on her Wings.  
In the warm Spring the warbling Birds rejoice,  
And in the smiling Sunshine tune their Voice.  
Basked in the Beams, they strain their tender Throats,  
Where cheerful light, inspires the charming Notes;  
Such, and so charming should my numbers be,  
If you, my only light would smile on me.  
Your influence, would inspire as moving airs,  
And make my Song, as soft, and sweet as theirs,  
Would you but once auspiciously incline  
To raise his Fame, who only writes for thine.  
I'd sing such Notes, as none but you could teach,  
And none but one, who loves like me can reach.  
Secure of you, what raptures could I boast?  
How wretched shall I be when you are lost?  
Ah! think what pangs despairing Lovers prove,  
And what a blessed Estate were mutual Love.  
How might my Soul be with your favour raised?  
And how in pleasing you, myself be pleased?  
With what delight? what transport could I burn?  
Did but my Flames receive the least return.  
How would one tender look? one pitying smile,  
Or one kind word from you, reward my toil?  
It must, and would your tenderest pity move,  
Were you but once convinced, how well I Love.  
By every power, that reigns and rules on high,  
By Love, the mightiest power of all the Sky.  
By your dear self, my last great Oath, I swear,  
That neither Life, nor Soul, are half so dear.  
What need I these superfluous Vows repeat?  
Already sighed so often at your Feet.  
You know my passion is sincere, and true,  
I love you to excess; you know I do.  
No Tongue, no Pen, can what I feel express,  
Even Poetry itself must make it less.  
You haunt me still, where ever I remove,  
There's no retreat, secure from Fate, or Love.  
My Soul from yours, no distance can divide,  
No Rocks, nor Caves, can from your Presence hide.  
By day, your lovely Form fills all my sight,  
Nor do I lose you, when I lose the light,  
You are the charming Phantom of the Night.  
Still your dear Image dances in my view,  
And all my restless Thoughts run still on you.  
You only, are the sleeping Poets Dream,  
And when a wake, you only are his Theme.  
Were I by some yet harder Fortune, hurled  
To the remotest parts of all the World.  
The coldest Northern Clime, the Torrid Zone,  
Should hear me sing of you, and you alone.  
That pleasing task should all my hours employ,  
Spent in a charming melancholy joy.  
The Chorus of the Birds, the whispering Boughs,  
And murmuring Streams, should join to soothe my Woes.  
My Thoughts of you, should yield, a sad delight,  
While Joy and Grief contend like Day and Night.  
With Smiles and Tears, resembling Sun and Rain,  
To keep the Pleasure, I'd endure the Pain.  
If such content, my troubled Soul could know,  
Such satisfaction mixed with so much woe.  
If but my Thoughts could keep my wishes warm,  
Ah! how would your transporting Presence charm?  
How pleasant would these pathless wild's appear,  
Were you alone my kind Companion here?  
What should I then have left me to deplore?  
Oh! what Society to wish for more?  
No Country thou art in, can Desert be,  
And Towns are desolate, deprived of thee.  
Banished with thee; I could an Exile bear,  
Banished from thee; the Banishment lies there.  
I to some lonely Isle with thee could fly,  
Where not a Creature dwells but thou and I.  
Where a wide spreading Main around us roars,  
Besprinkling with its Foam, our desert Shores.  
Where Winds, and Waves, in endless Wars engage,  
And high- wrought Tides roll with Eternal rage.  
Where Ships far off their fearsul courses steer  
And no bold Vessel ever ventur's near.  
Should rising Seas swell over every Coast,  
Were Mankind in a second Deluge lost.  
Did only two of all the World survive,  
Only one Man, one Woman left alive:  
And should the Gods, that Lot to us allow,  
Were I Deucalion, and my Pyrrha, thou.  
Contentedly I should my Fate embrace,  
And would not beg them to renew our Race,  
All my most ardent wishes should implore,  
All I should ask from each indulgent Power,  
Would be to keep thee safe and have no more.  
Your Cruelty occasions all my smart,  
Your kindness, could restore my bleeding Heart:  
You work me to a Storm, you make me calm,  
You give the Wound, and can infuse the Balm.  
Of you I boast, of you alone, complain,  
My greatest pleasure, and my greatest pain.  
When e'er you grieve, I can no comfort know,  
And when you first are pleased, I must be so:  
While you are well, there's no Disease I feel,  
And I enjoy no Health, when you are iii.  
What e'er you do my Actions does direct,  
Your Smile can raise me, and your Frown deject.  
Whom e'er you Love, I by the self same Fate,  
Love too; and hate what ever wretch, you hate.  
With yours, my wishes and my passions join,  
Your humour, and your interest, all is mine.  
I share in all; nor can my Fortunes be  
Unhappy, let but Fortune smile on thee.  
You can preserve, you only can destroy,  
Increase my sorrow, or create my joy.  
From you, and you alone, my doom I wait,  
You are the Star, whose influence rules my Fate.  
On yours my Being, and my Life depend,  
And mine shall last no more, when yours must end.  
No toil would be too great, no task too hard,  
Were you at last to be my rich reward.  
In serving you, I'd spend my latest breath,  
Brave any danger, run on any death.  
I live but for your sake, and when I die,  
All I shall pray for, is, may you be by.  
No Life, like like living with thee can delight,  
No Death can please like dying in thy sight:  
Oh! when I must by Heavens severe Decree,  
Be snatched from all that's dear, be snatched from thee.  
May'st thou be present to dispel my fear,  
And soften with thy Charms the Pangs I bear.  
While, on thy Lips I pour my parting Breath,  
Look thee all o'er, and clasp thee close in Death.  
Sigh out my Soul, upon thy panting Breast,  
And with a Passion not to be expressed,  
Sink at thy Feet into Eternal Rest.   
FINIS.   

SEVERAL STORIES OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, Translated into English Verse.   

THE STORY OF Narcissus and Echo, From the Third Book OF OVID's METAMORPHOSES.  

THE Vocal Nymph this lovely Huntsman viewed,  
As he into the Toils his Prey pursued.  
Tho' of the power of Speaking first debarred,  
She could not hold from answering what she heard.  
The Jealous Juno by her wiles Betrayed,  
Took this revenge on the Deceitful Maid.  
For when she might have seized her faithless Jove,  
Often in amorous Thefts of lawless Love:  
Her tedious talk would make the Goddess stay,  
And give her Rival's time to run away;  
Which when she found, she cried for such a wrong,  
Small be the power of that deluding tongue.  
Immediately the deed confirmed the Threats,  
For Echo, only what she hears repeats.   

Now at the sight of the Fair Youth she glows,  
And follows silently where e'er he goes.  
The nearer she pursued, the more she moved,  
Through the dear tract he trod, the more she loved.  
Still her approach inflamed her fierce desire,  
As Sulphurous Torches catch the Neighbouring Fire,  
How often would she strive, but strive in vain,  
To tell her Passion and confess her Pain?  
A thousand tender things her thoughts suggest,  
With which she would have wooed, but they suppressed  
For want of Speech, lay buried in her Breast.  
Begin she could not, but she stayed to wait  
Till he should speak, and she his Speech repeat.  
Now several ways his young Companions gone,  
And for some time Narcissus left alone.  
Where are you all? at last she hears him call,  
And she straight answers him, Where are you all?  
Around he lets his wand'ring eyesight roam,  
But sees no Creature whence the Voice should come:  
Speak yet again he cries, is any nigh?  
Again the mournful Echo, answers, I,  
Why come not you? says he, appear in view,  
She hastily returns, Why come not you?  
Once more the Voice the astonished Huntsman tried,  
Louder he called, and louder she replied.  
Then let us join, at last Narcissus said,  
Then let us join, replied the ravished Maid.  
Scarce had she spoke, when from the Woods she sprung,  
And on his Neck with close Embraces hung.  
But he with all his Strength unlocks her fold,  
And breaks unkindly from her feeble hold.  
Then proudly cries, Life shall this Breast forsake,  
E'er you loose Nymph, on me your Pleasure take.  
On me your Pleasure take, the Nymph replies,  
While from her the disdainful Huntsman flies.  
Repulsed, with speed she seeks the gloomyest Groves,  
And pines to think on her rejected Loves.  
Alone laments her ill requited flame,  
And in the closest Thickets shrouds her shame.  
Her rage to be refused, yields no relief,  
But her fond Passion is increased by Grief.  
The thoughts of such a slight all Sleep suppressed,  
And kept her languishing for want of Rest:  
Now pines she quite away with anxious Care,  
Her Skin contracts, her Blood dissolves to Air,  
Nothing but Voice and Bones she now retains,  
Th●● turn to Stones, but still the Voice remains:  
In Woods, Caves, Hills, for ever hid she lies,  
Herd by all Ears, but never seen by Eyes.   

Thus her and other Nymphs, his proud disdain,  
With an unheard of Cruelty had slain.  
Many on Mountains, and in Rivers born,  
Thus perished underneath his haughty Scorn:  
When one who in their Sufferings bore a share  
With suppliant hands addressed this humble Prayer.  
Thus may he Love himself, and thus despair.  
Nor were her Prayers at an ill hour preferred,  
Rhamnusia the Revengeful Goddess, heard.   

Nature had placed a Crystal Fountain near,  
The Water deep, but to the bottom clear.  
Whose Silver Spring ascended gently up,  
And bubbled softly to the Silent top.  
The surface smooth, as Icy Lakes appeared,  
Unknown by Herdsman, undisturbed by Herd.  
No bending Tree above its surface grows,  
Or scatters thence its Leaves, or broken Boughs;  
Yet at a just convenient distance stood,  
All round the peaceful Spring a stately Wood,  
Through whose thick tops no Sun could shoot his Beams,  
Nor view his Image in the Silver Streams:  
Thither from Hunting and the scorching Heat,  
The wearied Youth was one day led by Fate.  
Down on his Face to Drink the Spring he lies;  
But as his Image in that Glass he spies,  
He drinks in Passion, deeper at his Eyes.  
His own reflection works his wild Desire;  
And he himself sets his own self on Fire.  
Fixed as some Statue, he preserves his place,  
Intent his Looks, and motionless his Face.  
Deep through the Spring his Eyeballs dart their Beams,  
Like Midnight Stars that twinkle in the Streams.  
His Ivory Neck the Crystal mirror shows,  
His waveing Hair above the surface flows,  
His Cheeks reflect the Lily and the Rose.  
His own Perfection all his Passions moved,  
He loves himself, who for himself was loved;  
Who seeks is sought, who kindles the desires  
Is scorched himself, who is admired, admires,  
Oft would he the deceitful Spring embrace,  
And seek to fasten on that lovely Face.  
Oft with his down-thrust Arms he thought to fold,  
About that Neck that still deludes his hold.  
He gets no Kisses from those cozening Lips,  
His Arms grasp nothing, from himself he slips.  
He knows not what he views, and yet pursues,  
His desperate Love, and burns for what he views.  
" Catch not so fond at a fleeting shade,  
" And be no longer by yourself betrayed;  
" It borrows all it has from you alone,  
" And it can boast of nothing of its own:  
" With you it comes, with you it stays, and so  
" Would go away, had you the power to go.  
Neither for Sleep nor Hunger, would he move,  
But gazing still, augments his hopeless Love:  
Still o'er the Spring he keeps his bending Head,  
Still with that flattering Form his Eyes he fed,  
And silently surveys the treacherous Shade.  
To the deaf Woods, at length his Grief he vents,  
And in these words the wretched Youth laments.  
Tell me, ye Hills and Dales and Neighbouring Groves,  
You that are conscious of so many Loves;  
Say, have you ever seen a Lover pine  
Like me, or ever know a Love like mine?  
I know not whence this sudden Flame should come;  
I like and see, but see I know not whom:  
What grieves me more, no Rocks, nor rolling Seas,  
No strong-walled Cities, nor untrodden Ways,  
Only a slender, Silver Stream destroys,  
And casts the Bar between our sundered Joys.  
Even he too seems to ●●el an equal Flame,  
The same his Passion, h●s desires the same:  
As oft as I my long 〈…〉 ps decline  
To join with his, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 to meet with mine.  
So near our Faces, and our Mouths approach,  
That almost to ourselves, we seem to touch:  
Come forth who e'er thou art, and do not fly  
From one so passionately fond as I;  
I've nothing to deserve your just disdain,  
But have been loved, as I love you in vain.  
Yet all the signs of mutual Love you give,  
And my poor hopes in all your Actions live:  
When in the Stream, our Hands I strive to join,  
Yours strait ascend, and halfway grasp at mine.  
You Smile my Smiles; when I a Tear let fall,  
You shed another, and consent in all:  
And when I speak, your lovely Lips appear  
To utter something, which I cannot hear.  
Alas! 'tis I myself, too late I see,  
My own deceitful Shade has ruined me.  
With a mad Passion for myself I'm cursed,  
And bear about those Flames I kindled first.  
In so perplexed a Case, what can I do?  
Ask, or be asked? shall I be wooed, or woo?  
All that I wish, I have, what would I more?  
Ah! 'tis my too great plenty makes me poor.  
Divide me from myself, ye Powers Divine!  
Nor let his Being intermix with mine.  
All that I love, and wish for, now retake,  
A strange Request for one in Love to make!  
I feel my strength decay with inward Grief,  
And hope to lose my Sorrows with my Life:  
Nor would I mourn my own untimely Fate,  
Were he I love, allowed a longer Date:  
This makes me at my cruel Stars repine,  
That his much dearer Life must end with mine.  
This said, again he turns his watery Face,  
And gazes wildly in the Crystal Glass,  
While streaming Tears from his full Eyelids fell,  
And drop, by drop, raised Circles in the Well:  
The several Rings, larger, and larger spread,  
And by degrees dispersed the fleeting shade;  
Which when perceived, Oh whither would you go?  
He cries, ah! whither, whither, fly you now?  
Stay lovely Shade, do not so cruel prove,  
In leaving me, who to distraction Love:  
Let me still see what ne'er can be possess't,  
And with the sight alone my Frenzy feast,  
Now frantic with his Grief, his Robe he tears,  
And Tokens of his Rage his Bosom bears:  
The cruel Wounds on his pure Body show,  
Like Crimson mingling with the whitest Snow:  
Like Apples with Vermilion-circles, stripe,  
Or a fair Bunch of Grapes not fully ripe.  
But when he looks, and sees the Wounds he made,  
Writ on the Bosom of the charming Shade;  
His Sorrow would admit of no Relief,  
But all his Sense was swallowed in his Grief.   

As Wax, near any kindled Fuel placed,  
Melts, and is sensibly perceived to waste:  
As Morning Frosts are found to Thaw away,  
When once the Sun begins to warm the day,  
So the fond Youth dissolves in hopeless Fires,  
And by degrees Consumes in vain desires:  
His lovely Cheeks, now lost their white and red,  
Diminished was his Strength, his Beauty fled;  
His Body from its just Proportions fell,  
Which the scorned Echo lately loved so well.  
Yet tho' her first resentments she retained,  
And still remembered how she was disdained;  
She sighed, and when the wretched Lover cried,  
Alas, alas, the woeful Nymph replied:  
Then when with cruel Blows, his Hands would wound  
His tender Breast, she still restored the sound.  
Now hanging o'er the Spring his drooping Head,  
With a sad sigh these dying words he said,  
Ah! Boy, beloved in vain, through all the Plain,  
ECHO resounds, Ah! Boy, beloved in vain:  
Farewell he cries, and with that Word he died,  
Farewell, the miserable Nymph replied.  
Now pale and breathless, on the Grass he lies,  
For Death had shut his self-admiring Eyes.  
Now wafted over to the Stygian Coast,  
The Waters there reflect his wand'ring Ghost:  
In loud laments, his weeping Sisters mourn,  
Which Echo, makes the Neighbouring Hills return.  
All signs of desperate Grief the Nymphs express,  
Great is the Moan, yet is not Echoes less.    

THE STORY OF Salmacis and Hermaphroditus, From the Fourth Book OF OVID's METAMORPHOSES.  

THE lovely Salmacis the Fountain owned '  
A Nymph with every blooming Beauty crowned.  
Unpractised in the Chase, untaught to throw  
The thrilling Dart, or bend the stubborn Bow.  
Never engaged in Races on the Plain,  
Nor ever mingling with Diana's Train.  
Oft would her Sisters say, rise, rise for shame,  
And join with us in some laborious Game.  
Seize on a Quiver, or a pointed Spear,  
Hunt the wild Boar, or chase the timorous Deer;  
No Quiver would she feeze, no Javelin shake,  
No Toil endure, in no Fatigue partake.  
But in her Fountain is her sole delight,  
For there she Baths by day, and Rests by night,  
Still in that liquid Glass herself she dressed,  
And learned from thence, what look became her best.  
Now in thin Lawn, her lovely Limbs arrayed,  
Stretched at their length, on the sost Moss were laid,  
Through the transparent Robes, to the full view displayed.  
Now languishing she lies, and gathers Flowers,  
Plucked from the blooming sides of Neighbouring Bowers.  
Thus was she busied, when she chanced to spy  
The lovely Son of Hermes passing by.  
At the first sight, she found her Wishes fired,  
And the fair Youth, as soon as seen, desired.  
Yet would she not approach, tho' mad to meet,  
Tho' she could scarce hold back her eager Feet,  
Till she might first her utmost skill bestow,  
To make her Beauties to advantage show.  
Use all her Art to let her Charms appear,  
Who without Art, might well be reckoned fair.   

At last attired she comes, at once she breaks.  
Into these moving words, and meltingly she speaks   

Such charms, dear Youth, dwell in your lovely  
I cannot think you born of Humane Race. (Face,  
If then a God, descended from above,  
You are not sure, less than the God of Love.  
But if you spring not from a Race divine,  
If come from any of a mortal Line,  
Happy, thrice happy, must thy Parents be,  
And all thy Kindred blessed, and proud of thee.  
Blest were that Woman's Breasts who fed thee first,  
In whose fond Arms, thy Infancy was Nurssed.  
But more,—— Oh! infinitely more than all the rest,  
Must the fair Partner of thy Bed be blessed?  
If there be such, let us the Bliss divide,  
Too great to be by any one enjoyed.  
If not already bound by Nuptial Vows,  
Seal them with me, make me the joyful Spouse, (ness made  
Here stopped the Lovesick Nymph; whose bold-  
The bashful Youth blush, for the things she said.  
Still Lovelier in his Blushes, looked the Boy.  
Still her desires grew fiercer to en●y.  
So blushes Fruit upon the Sunny-side,  
So Ivory shows with deep Vermilion died.  
So in Eclipses looks the labouring Moon,  
When stained with red, her struggling Face is shown.   

Nearer, and nearer, now the Virgin moved,  
Ready to seize upon the Swain she loved.  
Disdainfully he flies her fond Embrace,  
And cries with Bashful Anger in his Face,  
Forbear loose Nymph, or I'll forsake the place.  
She, at that Menace from the Man she loved,  
Replied, 'tis yours, fair Youth, and so removed.  
Yet at some distance, in a Thicket hid,  
The Maid observed what e'er the Charmer did.  
Who now believing that he was not seen,  
With 〈◊〉 Steps trips o'er the Flowery Green.  
Now to the Banks o● that delightful Stream,  
Which the Fair Nymph that loved him, owned, he came,  
Dipped in his Feet, and thence by small degrees,  
Pleased with the warmth, he waded to the Knees.  
Then back unto the Banks again he goes,  
Down on the ground his Silken Garments throws,  
And to the ravished Maid, all, all the Man he shows.  
His Naked Charms her wondering Sight amazed,  
Who now with more impatient longings gazed.  
Her eyes shoot Fires, and shine with sparkling Flames,  
As when the Sun plays on the Silver Streams,  
Or when a Crystal Glass reflects the Beams.  
Mad to possess her Bliss, about to fly,  
To seize, and fasten on the Lovely Boy, (Joy.  
She burns with the delay of the Transporting  
Now from the Flowery Bank, on which he stood,  
The lovely Youth leaped down into the Flood.  
His skilful Arms support his Snowy Limbs,  
Still glit'ring through the Streams in which he swims.  
Like Ivory Statues which the Life surpass,  
Or Lillys covered with a Crystal Glass.  
He's mine, he's mine, the ravished Virgin cries,  
And straight disrobed of all, impatient flies,  
And plunging in the Flood, pursues her Joys.  
Now o'er his Neck her circling Arms she cast,  
Now threw them lower, o'er his struggling waste.  
Her twining Limbs on every side she wound,  
Looked him all o'er, and clasped him all around.  
" So when a towering Eagles Talons bear,  
" A Snake close gripped, and hissing through the air.  
" About his Neck the Curling Serpent clings,  
" And fetters with his Tail his spacious Wings.   

Still, tho' detained, the Boy the Bliss denies,  
Still struggles to resist the Virgin's Joys.  
In vain you strive, she cries, this proud disdain,  
Foolish, ingrateful Youth, is all in vain.  
Grant ye good Gods, no day, no time may see  
Me severed from this Youth, or him from me.   

To the Maid's Prayer propitious Gods inclined,  
Straight into one their different forms were twined,  
And as they mingled Souls, their Bodies joined.    

THE PASSION OF Scylla for Minos, From the Eighth Book OF OVID's METAMORPHOSES,  

A Tower with sounding Walls erected stands,  
The sacred Fabric of Apollo's Hands.  
His Harp laid by, the Strings their Airs dispense,  
And vocal Stones received their virtue thence.  
This Scylla, in the time of Peace, ascends,  
And thence her look o'er all the Lawns extends,  
Now with delight she views the spacious Town,  
Now, pleased with dropping little Pebbles down,  
striketh a sweet Music from the warbling Stone.  
In times of Wars the selfsame prospect yields,  
The pleasing horror of the bloody Fields.  
Long had they now in equal Balance hung,  
And doubtful Victory depended long.  
This gave her leisure to discern and know,  
The several Leaders of the Neighbouring Foe.  
Minos' their General, most of all she knew,  
More than a virtuous Virgin ought to do.  
Whether his Helmet glittered from afar,  
And with its waving Feathers threatened War.  
Whether his Hands, his shining Sword would wield,  
Or his strong Arm raise his refulgent Shield.  
Whate'er she saw him do, she praised, and loved,  
And kept him still in view, wherever he moved.  
Whenever he shook a Spear, or cast a Dart,  
She knew not which excelled, his Strength, or Art,  
Whenever he drew a Shaft, she'd swear, that so  
Even Phoebus would himself discharge his Bow.  
But when his naked Visage he disclosed,  
His charming Face to public view exposed.  
When on his foaming Horse he road the Plains,  
Ruling with skilful Hands the stubborn Reins.  
Then like Tempestuous Seas, her Passions roll,  
Mad her sick-Brain, and rack her troubled Soul.  
Happy, she calls the Courser which he pressed;  
Happy, the Lance he couched within his Rest,  
Happy, the Vamplate that secured his Breast.  
Now, would she think of flying to the Foe,  
And would have gone, had she a way to go.  
Now, headlong from the Tower herself have sent,  
And ventured Life, to reach her Lovers Tent.  
Open the Brazen Gates, when Love inspired,  
Or act whate'er the Foe she loved, desired.  
Silent she sat with a distracted look,  
Till Passion gave her leave, and then she spoke.   

In this unhappy War, and fatal strife,  
I know not which to yield to, Joy or Grief.  
Tho' 'tis my Fate, to love my Country's Foe,  
I had not seen him, had he not been so.  
Yet might they let their fierce contentions fall,  
And making Peace, make me the Pledge for all.  
Minos, and I once joined, our Wars might cease,  
And that Alliance fix a lasting Peace.  
Well might your Mother's Charms a God subdue,  
If ever she could Charm, dear Youth, like you.  
Happy! thrice happy! had I Wings to fly,  
To yonder Tents, where the loved Foe does lie.  
I'd tell the dear disturber of my rest,  
All that I feel, could it be all expressed,  
And pour my Soul into the Charmers Breast.  
Give all I can to make him once my own,  
All he should ask; all;— but my Father's Crown.  
This Love shall cease, these fierce desires shall die,  
E'er I by Treachery my wish enjoy.  
Yet when a generous Foe disputes the Field,  
It is not safest to resist, but yield.  
The tragic Destiny of his darling Son,  
Has brought at last these Fatal Mischiess on.  
In a just Cause, his vengeful Sword he draws,  
Strong is his Army, to maintain his Cause.  
Needs must my charming Hero prosperous prove,  
Then let him owe his Conquest to my Love.  
Thus thousands will be saved, who else must bleed,  
And daily perish, if the Wars proceed.  
Minos will thus be safe; and I be blest,  
Else he may chance to perish with the rest.  
Some rash unknowing Hand, his Spear may dart,  
Against my too, too venturous Hero's Heart.  
For who without concern, his Wounds could see?  
Or who would wound him, if he knew'twas he?  
'Tis then resolved; lest such a Chance should fall  
On him I Love so well, I'll hazard all.  
My Country, and myself, one Gift I'll join,  
And make the Merit of his Conquest mine.  
To Will is nothing, when we can't fulfil,  
For wretched want of power; the things we Will.  
The Gates are kept with a sufficient Guard,  
And every night my Fathers sees them barred.  
'Tis he destroys my Bliss; 'tis him I fear;  
Would he were with the dead, or I were there.  
Might I (not inj'ring him) my Bliss pursue?  
Indulgent Gods! but why invoke I you?  
We our own Gods, have power ourselves to bless,  
And from ourselves derive our own success.  
The only way to prosper, is to dare,  
For Fortune listens not to lazy Prayer.  
Others inflamed with such a fierce desire,  
Have forced through all to quench their raging Fire.  
Shall any other then, more resolute prove?  
Through Fire and Sword, I'd force my way to love.  
Yet to assist me here, I need not call  
For Fire, or Sword; my Father's Hair is all.  
That, that must Crown my joys, and make me blest,  
Beyond whatever else can be possessed,  
Beyond what can be by my words expressed.    

A Pastoral Elegy ON THE DEATH OF DELIA.  
Quam referent Musa, vivet, dum robora tellus,  
Dum coelum stellas, dum vehit amnis aquas.  
Tibullus.   

A Pastoral Elegy ON THE DEATH OF DELIA.  
Daphnis, and Thyrsis.  Thyr. 

STAY wretched Swain, lie here, and here lament,  
Press not too far, your Strength, already spent.  
Long, has distracting Sorrow made you rove  
Through every desert Plain, and dismal Grove,  
Still silent with excess of Grief, and Love.  
Feebly your Trembling Legs, beneath you go,  
And bend o'erburd'ned with their Load of Woe.  
Stay, and this Melancholy Grotto choose,  
A proper Mansion for a mourning Muse.  
Lay your tired Limbs extended on the Moss,  
And tell the listening Woods of Delia's loss:  
Here, the sad Muse need no disturbance fear,  
For not a living thing inhabits here.  
Music may give your Sorrows some relief,  
And I by listening to you, share your grief.   Daph. 

What Music now can my sad numbers boast?  
What Muse invoke? alas! my Muse is lost.  
Long since my useless Pipe was thrown aside,  
My Reeds were broke that hour that Delia died.  
From her alone their Inspiration came,  
She gave the Verse, and was the Verses Theme.  
For ever should my Sorrows keep me Dumb,  
Silent as Death, and hushed as Delia's Tomb,  
Did not the force of Love unlock my Tongue,  
Lest her dear Beauties should remain unsung.  
Her Charms let every Muse conspire to tell,  
And that once done, let every Muse farewell.   

This the last Tribute of my Verse I bring,  
To Sing her Death, and then no more to Sing.  
Be still ye Winds, or in soft whispers blow,  
Ye purling Streams, with gentler Murmurs flow,  
Let Lambs forbear to bleat, and Herds to low.  
Let all in easy mournful Numbers move,  
Let all be soft, and artless as my Love.   

Oh! she was every way Divinely fair,  
Charming in Person, and in Soul sincere.  
She was, alas! more than the Muse can tell,  
Well worthy Love, and was beloved as well.  
She was, alas! these Tears that saying draws,  
Oh! 'tis a cruel, killing word; She was.  
Now she no more must tread the Flowery Plains,  
No more, be gazed at by admiring Swains.  
No more, the choicest Flowers, and Daisies choose,  
Or pluck the Pasture for her tender Ewes.  
Say, ye poor Flocks, how often have ye stood?  
And from her lovely hands received your Food.  
Now; ye no more, from those fair hands must feast,  
Those hands, which gave the Flowers a sweeter taste.  
Mourn her, by whom ye were so often fed,  
And cry with me, the Shepherdess is dead.   

This the last tribute of my Verse I bring  
To Sing her Death, and then no more to Sing.   

Weep for her loss; relenting Heaven, and keep  
Time with our Tears; Heaven seems apace to Weep.  
In murmuring drops the mournful Rain distils,  
And Sable Clouds wrap round the sides of Hills.  
The Goat forbears to browse, the tender Ewe,  
Will drink no longer of the falling Dew.  
No morning Larks their mounting-Wings display,  
Or cheer with warbling Airs the dusky day.  
On dropping Boughs, sad Nightingales complain,  
Join in my Songs, but Sing like me, in vain.  
In doleful Notes the murmuring Turtles coo,  
Each of them seems t'have lost a Delia too.  
The melting Air in Mists, its Sorrows shows,  
And cold damp Sweat the face of Earth bedews.  
With Tears, the River- Gods enlarge their Spring,  
Swans in sad strains on swelling Waters Sing,  
In Sighs, the God of Winds his Passion vents,  
And all, all Nature, for her Loss laments.   

This, the last Tribute of my Verse, I bring,  
To Sing her Death, and then no more to Sing.  
How often, on the Banks of Silver Thames,  
My eyes on hers, and hers upon the Streams,  
Has she stood Listening when I told my Flames?  
How often, has a sudden, sidelong look,  
Seemed to confess her Pity when I spoke?  
Pity I had, though I could never move,  
In her cold Breast the least return of Love.  
Pity from her, more welcome did receive,  
Than all the Love another Fair could give.  
And it was some, some small relief to see  
She loved not others, tho' she loved not me.  
Say, gentle Thames, how often have I stood,  
Viewing her dear reflection in your Flood?  
When on her Face I durst not gaze for fear;  
How often have I looked, and found it there?  
How often, have I wished my Verse might prove  
Smooth as your Stream, whenever I writ of Love?  
Say, how your courteous Waves would never flow  
O'er any any Path where she was used to go.  
Now let your River, like my Eyes, run over,  
Insult with fuller Tides the desert Shore,  
And drown those Banks, where Delia walks no more.   

This the last Tribute of my Verse I bring,  
To Sing her Death, and then no more to Sing.   

Blue Violets, and Blushing Roses fade,  
Fold your Silk Leaves, and hang your drooping head,  
Shut up your sweets, and seem like Delia, dead.  
Let Spring run backwards, and the Vintage blast,  
Let constant Showers, lay all the Country waste.  
Let Flames unto the centre downwards tend,  
And let the Floods, untossed by Winds, ascend.  
Let all things change, and wear another Face,  
Let Nature not appear the same she was.  
Let Fowl to dwell beneath the Waters try,  
And let the Watery Herd attempt to fly,  
Let Wolves protect the Flocks upon the Plains,  
Let bashful Virgins woe disdainful Swains.  
Let Savage Death, its cruelty pursue,  
And since my Delia's Dead; let me die too.   

This the last Tribute of my Verse I bring,  
To Sing her Death, and then no more to Sing.   

See, where the God of Love, all sad appears,  
His smoking Torch extinguished with his Tears.  
Well may he weep for his declining Power,  
His Charm is done, since Delia is no more.  
Through her he Conquered, and through her he reigned;  
Her Beauties his decaying sway sustained,  
And she now gone, his Empire is disdained.   

See, where Diana with a stately Train  
Os goodly Nymphs, descends upon the Plain,  
Each of them weeps, and leans upon her Bow,  
And mourns her fellow Delia wanting now.  
The Goddess grieves to see her Train decreased,  
And swelling sighs, shake every Virgin Breast.  
Unhurt, they let the Stags beside them pass,  
Nor follow Boars that tempt them to the Chase.  
In several forms of woe, their Grief they vent,  
And all with me for Delia's loss lament.  
This the last Tribute of my Verse I bring,  
To Sing her Death, and then no more to Sing.  
Look yonder, where the lovely Nymph is laid,  
I'll go, and on her Earth recline my Head,  
Choke with my Sighs, and hasten to the Dead.  
Come hither all ye Swains, with Garlands come,  
Pour out your Richest Perfumes on her Tomb.  
Let Myrtles on her Grave unplanted grow,  
In ready Wreaths for every Lover's brow.  
Let Flowers unknown before, be daily seen  
To raise their Heads above the spacious Green,  
Millions of blooming Sweets, her Earth surround,  
And balmy Gums distil upon the ground.  
Here let the tuneful Muse for ever cease,  
To give unutterable sorrow place.  
Let Sighs, and streàming Tears resume their course,  
And my sad Eyes, be their Eternal Source.  
I'll go, and choose some melancholy Cave,  
As undisturbed and secret, as the Grave.  
I'll feast my Eyes with nothing fair on Earth,  
Nor shall my Ears hear any sound of Mirth.  
Farewell ye charming Choristers that dwell  
In sacred Groves, ye warbling Birds, farewell.  
Adieu ye Nymphs, adieu ye fellow Swains,  
Ye Silver Streams, sweet Swans, and flowery Plains.  
Farewell all happy Days, and smiling Hours,  
Refreshing Valleys, and delightful Bowers.  
Adieu to every Grotto, every Grove,  
Adieu to Poetry, adieu to Love.   
FINIS.