English

It is said in the Scripture, who weds will do well,
But who does not is certain of bliss;
Yet believe me, dear Ann, if the truth I must tell,
You will gain very little by this.

You have spread every lure and left nothing untried,
A helpmate to gain it is true;
And although no fond partner reclines by your side,
Living single's no Virtue in you.

It is said in the Scripture, who weds will do well,
But who does not is certain of bliss;
Yet believe me, dear Ann, if the truth I must tell,

Daphne , you'd fain be cross and rude ,
And pass in earnest for a Prude ;
Still calling on the Pow'rs above,
To hinder you, from what you love .
Fond Self-Tormentor , 'tis in vain!
You was not born for Virtue 's Chain!
Your heaving Breast too well reveals
The Struggle which poor Honour feels.
So ill you act th' affected Part,
With so much Truth , so little Art ,
That 'tis meer Folly , to delay
What you must grant another Day.

CÆLIA TO DAMON .

I who was once the glory of the plain,
The fairest virgin of the virgin train,
Am now (by thee, O faithless man! betray'd)
A fall'n, a lost, a miserable maid!
Ye winds! that wieness to my deep despair,
Receive my sighs, and wast them thro' the air,
And gently breathe them to my Damon's ear!
Curs'd, ever curs'd, be that unlucky day
When trembling, sighing, at my feet he lay!
I trembled, sigh'd, and look'd my heart away.
Why was he form'd ye Pow'rs! his sex's pride,

'Twas sung of old how one Amphion
Could by his verses tame a lion,
And by his strange enchanting tunes
Make bears or wolves dance rigadoons,
His songs could call the timber down,
And form it into house or town;
But it is plain that in these times
No house is rais'd by poet's rhymes;
They for themselves can only rear
A few wild castles in the air:
Poor are the brethren of the bays,
Down from high strains to ekes and ayes,
The Muses too are virgins yet,
And may be — till they portions get.

Had I the Eagle 's piercing Sight;
The rapid Dove 's unwearied Flight:
Cou'd I my Love to love excite;
Like her receive , and give Delight:
Cou'd I be secret as the Night;
Convince all Parties of the Right;
For ever quell my Foes in Fight;
Dare , all I cou'd; say, all I might ;
Like you, renowned Poet , write;
I then shou'd be a happy Wight!

Oh! 'tis not Flatt'ry — though I own
That thus to ramble on with thee
(Save Nature's presence) all alone
Has many a pleasing charm for me.

To watch the flush that feeling throws
In roseate tints upon your cheek,
Or catch the unsullied thought that flows
In every artless word you speak.

To mark the smile those lips impart —
That bright and airy form to view
Or hold communion with a heart
To Virtue's holiest impulse true.

Nay, there's a spell of secret power

The golden sun, emerging from the main,
Beams a blue lustre on the dewy plain;
Elate with joy all creatures hail his rise,
That haunt the forest, or that skim the skies.
Gay-blooming flow'rs their various charms renew,
A breathing fragrance, or a lovely hue:
Sweet pipes the shepherd, the fair morn to greet,
To his stout team the ploughman whistles sweet.
All Nature smiles around. On airy wing
The Lark, harmonious herald of the spring,
Rises aloft to breath his mattins loud
On the bright bosom of some fleecy cloud.

( " Sara, belle d'indolence. " )

In a swinging hammock lying,
Lightly flying,
Zara, lovely indolent,
O'er a fountain's crystal wave
There to lave
Her young beauty — see her bent.

As she leans, so sweet and soft,
Flitting oft,
O'er the mirror to and fro,
Seems that airy floating bat
Like a feather
From some sea-gull's wing of snow.

Hear the happy jays a-singin';
Leaves a-driftin' in the medder;
See the 'simmons turnin' redder,
An' the farmer boy a-grinnin'
At his copper toes.

Happy times fer me an' Sal;
Happy times for Jim an' Al;
We've raised a sumshus crop,
An' we're upon the top,
In our new-bought clothes.

More an' more it's gittin' cooler;
Frost is makin' purtier pictures
On the winder-panes. By victers!
I am feelin' like a ruler
Over all this earth.

Happy times for me an' Sal;

Tho' Time may steal the roseate blush
On which I now so fondly gaze,
Its sternest power can never crush
The love which lit my youthful days.

Your cheek may blanch, your eye grow dim,
Your clustering locks with sorrow fade,
But still you'll be as dear to him
Who on your breast in Boyhood laid.

Who, o'er you bent whole happy hours,
Or round your form enraptured clung,
While Love and Hope transformed to flowers
The sharpest thorns that near him sprung.

Who, in his childish heart would cherish