Let lovers sigh for night,
In their young fancy sweetest,
When pale Luna's gentle light
The eye greetest.

Let them lovingly stray
The calm cool groves among,
When every sound has died away,
And night is young.

I love the tranquil hour
Just as the broad sun sets,
When Zephyr with dew from his bow'r
The king-cup wets.

'T is then the purer heart
Feels joy it cannot smother,
When day and night seem loth to part,
And kiss each other.

And I have drank of bliss
At twilight hour, with one

It happen'd that Cupid one day,
The urchin is heedless and young,
By a bee, while a-sleeping it lay
Unseen on a rose-bud was stung.

Then quick to Cythera ran he,
Exclaiming, Mamma, I'm undone;
And a serpent, that men call a bee,
By his sting proves the death of your son,

Quoth Venus, Thou well may'st complain
Of the wound of the sting of a bee,
But think how much greater their pain,
Who are pierc'd through with arrows by thee.

The Sable sadde bewrapped hath my lymmes,
(A sute most fyt for one repleat with griefe.)
Whose strayned hart in sowrce of sorrowe swymmes,
Where wrackfull woes at no tyme finde reliefe.
Whose foode is feare, whose drinke is dolor deepe,
Whose sawce is sighes, whose tast sharpe passions are:
Whose rest is ruthe, where sorrowes neuer sleepe,
Whose comfort clipsed is with clowds of care.
Whose helpe is frozen, whose hap hath hard euente,
Whose hope is queld with clogge of colde dispayre:
Whose trust is tyerd, whose toyle in vaine is spente,

( " Toutes les passions s'eloignent avec l'âge. " )

As life wanes on, the passions slow depart,
One with his grinning mask, one with his steel;
Like to a strolling troupe of Thespian art,
Whose pace decreases, winding past the hill,
But nought can Love's all charming power efface,
That light, our misty tracks suspended o'er,
In joy thou'rt ours, more dear thy tearful grace,
The young may curse thee, but the old adore.

Horns to the bull, hoofs to the horse,
Swiftness to hares, to lions force;
To fishes sins to cleave the wave,
Birds wings to fly, kind nature gave;
Courage and fortitude of breast
To man more noble than the rest.
Their sev'ral gifts to each assign'd,
What more remain'd to woman-kind?
To her she gave no sword or dart,
But beauty to enthral the heart;
Woman, possess'd of beauty's charms,
Needs not the aid of foreign arms,
Resistless in her face and mien,
All yield to her as soon as seen;
'Tis hers to tame the fierce and brave,

WRITTEN JUNE , 1764.

Thee, sad M ELPOMENE , I once again
Invoke, nor ask the idly plaintive verse:
Quit the light reed for sorrow's sober strain,
And hang thy flowerets on my D ELIA 's herse.

Oft by yon silver fountain's sedgy side,
Or through the twilight shade I us'd to rove,
Have sung her beauties to the listening tide,
And fill'd with notes like these the echoing grove;

Gay, glitt'ring phantom of the night,
Delusive, mischief-loving sprite,
That danceth in the weary way,
Of nighted trav'ller led astray;
And by thy wand'rings doth mislead,
The assignation-giving maid!
Sometimes thou'rt seen to glimmer near
The ruins of an abbey drear;
Full visible to frighted eye,
Of trembling peasant stalking by;
Who scared, affrighted, homeward hies,
With looks aghast, and staring eyes!
The group around the evening fire,
The cause of look aghast enquire,
Nor with additions does he fail

WRITTEN SEPTEMBER 1, 1763

When the still Night withdrew her sable shroud,
And left those climes with steps sedate and slow;
While sad Aurora , kerchief'd in a cloud,
With drizzly vapours hung the mountain's brow;

The wretched bird, from hapless P ERDIX sprung,
With trembling wings forsook the furrow'd plain,
And, calling round her all her listening young,
In faultering accents sung this plaintive strain:

I.

And must I, ghastly guest of this dark dwelling,
Pale, senseless tenant must I come to this;
And shall this heart congeal, now warmly swelling
To woe's soft langour, rapture's melting bliss!

II.

And must this pulse that beats to joy's gay measure,
Throbbing with bloomy health, this pulse lie still;
And must each sense alive to guileless pleasure,
Torpid resist the touch of transport's thrill?

III.

I.

As by thy paly lamp, dew-weeping Hesper,
I musing strayed with devious step and slow;
Or paused to catch thy vot'rist bird's faint vesper,
A distant strain arose, soft, wild, and low.

II.

Swelling full sweet, with every gale it blended,
And like a loud sigh breath'd o'er Eve's sad gloom,
Such strains from Arion's wave-borne lyre ascended,
Such Philomel pour'd o'er her Orpheus' tomb.

III.