Short Poems

Say , Prior , stands this Busto here to show,
Thy Life had not its Vanities enow;
And could a Poet , that immortal Name ,
Implore the Chissel's Charity of Fame?

Sure all submit to lovely Laura 's Charms,
Who with a thousand Darts an Apple arms;
With Adoration I approach'd the Dame,
My Hand receiv'd the Fruit , my Soul the Flame:
Alas, too deep I feel the deadly Smart,
I gain'd an Apple , but I lost my Heart .

Shew me, said I, thou mighty God of Love,
The brightest Nymph that ever trod the Grove;
When thus the laughing Deity reply'd;
Well, Swain, for once I'll gratify thy Pride:
Laurinda 's Form divinely fair behold,
And that the Boast more safely may be told,
Here, take a Signal of her Power; this Dart:
He said, and fiercely shot it in my Heart.

Two charming Nymphs to Man's Destruction born,
One Graecia did, one England does adorn.
The first bright Fair too kindly fatal lov'd,
This by Severities as fatal prov'd:
Alas! how different is our equal Fate!
For that Age fell by Love , and this by Hate .

If Laura but wear it, a Feather can charm,
Ah who can be safe, if a Feather can harm?
Since first I beheld it, the Life I have led!
All Qulet and Ease with the Feather are fled.
Fly Youth from my Laura , whoever thou art,
And, warn'd by the Feather , beware of the Dart .

A Preacher pious, learned, humble, wise,
Who knew with wond'rous art how to dispense
Paul's doctrine in Apollo's eloquence,
Under this stone in easy slumbers lies;
Till God shall of his dust a structure frame,
Immortal as his soul, and as his name.

Marked you her eye of heavenly blue?
Marked you her cheek of roseate hue?
That eye in liquid circles moving,
That cheek abashed at man's approving:
The one , love's arrows darting round;
The other , blushing at the wound!

TWENTY-FIVE years since! That morn in May
Dearest, seems near as yesterday
Hallowed by love and sacred sorrow;
So be our years till life's downward light
Fades in the dusk, so pure and brief,
In which Faith reaches her hand to Grief
And scarce the Mourner has sighed — " 'tis night! "
Than Angels cry — " 'tis morrow! "

Good Heaven! this Mystery of Life explain,
Nor let me think I bear the Load in vain;
Left with the tedious Passage chearless grown,
Urg'd by Despair I throw the Burden down.

'Twas a Doubt in Debate among Sages of yore,
Whether Women , or Wine , had more absolute Power;
Now had I been the Judge, when the Matter was done,
Not one had been wiser, than when it begun:
For how can Man tell, which the strongest to call,
When with the same Ease, both can give him a Fall?