English

( " 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;

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.

Of sufferance comes ease.

Who wayles at paine of sorrowes deadly smarte,
By wayling much encreaseth sorrowes might:
In greatest griefes who shewes the quiets(t) harte,
By pacience driues sharpst griefe to speedy flight.
Repine, griefe growes, be still, griefe soone decayes:
Suffrance the salue for griefe at all assayes.

As Balles if throwne gainst stones do soone rebounde,
But fast they stick, if cast they be at durte:
So griefs nought harme where yeelding none is found:

Hail nymph of every novel grace,
Of airy step and varying pace;
With frolic smile, and meaning sly,
Beaming from thy roving eye!
With glance deriding wrinkled Care,
And sportive, comic, easy air;
Thy brow with many a feather crown'd,
In many a various climate found:
Thy robe of every rainbow hue,
As bright, as evanescent too;
Thy girdle by the Graces wove,
And breath'd on by the Queen of Love;

Thy cheeks the lily now disclose,
Now emulate the glowing rose:
Mirth from thine eye now flings his ray,

Sithe kindled coales close kept, continue longest quick,
And secret smarte with greater power, the pensiue mind doth prick.
Why should I cloke the griefe, from whence such passions grow,
Vnlesse my braine by Pen I purge, my brest they ouerflow.
When night with quyet pause, eche creature cals to rest,
Through quelling cares & pinching thoughts, I lye so sore oprest,
That from my setling downe, vntill the tyme I rise,
Sleepe hardly wins the force to close, my watchful drooping eies.
The Skrich Owle me besides, her dolefull tunes doth shreeke,