When Poets lavish all their Store,
 To paint a Mistress gay;
They prove not how their Souls adore,
 But what their Muse can say.

Fame, the great Object of their Vows,
 By various Names they woo;
And, while to Beauty Fancy bows,
 Their Souls a Breath persue.

Me no such vain Ambition movesm——
 Ye Bards, enjoy your Fame!
My Heart can simply say it loves :
 And heave M ONTELIA 's Name.

M ONTELIA 's Charms so far excell,
 They make my Soul their Slave;
She's more, at least, than I can tell;
 And all I wish to have!

Duna thou queen of many rivers—thou
Of all Slavonia, venerable mother!
Why to a foreign ocean dost thou flow,
Why leave thy native home to seek another?
O! if thou love thy birth-place, if thou know
Pity for these thy sorrowing children—glide
Not to the Osmans, but these tears of woe
Bear to thy cradle on thy silver tide.
Dost thou seek wreaths of fame?—it is no fame
To bear a hundred ships upon thy face
While it is water'd by a single tear—
Yet this is glory—when Wletarva here,
Joins to thy name its own fraternal name,

Tell me, ye reapers, tell me have ye found,
While binding up your sheaves of golden corn,
A little, laughing, lovely boy, around
Whose curly locks a harvest-wreath is bound?
Ye shepherds, who with dew-damp feet, at morn
Track your white lambs — say have ye seen forlorn
A gentle joyous child, that o'er the ground
Trips sportively? Ye forests, that adorn
The mountains — ye sweet birds — ye flowing rills —
Ye list'ning rocks — heard ye that voice's sound,
Whose strain of music thro' creation thrills?
If ye have seen not — heard not — pity me —

O not our own Karpathia's quiet vales,
O'er which the green-brow'd mountains girt with stone
Raise up to heaven their adamantine walls,
Making midst stars and clouds a glorious throne.
Not Pison pouring to Euphrate's tide,
Its golden-water fountain — not the juice
Which medicine's marvellous craft did erst produce
When Vulcan fann'd the fire — these will not hide,
These will not heal, my sorrows — I can find
No freshening stream to cool my burning breast,
No ointment on the wounds of life to bind —
Without its nymphs sweet Tempe were unblest;

How is that favour'd mortal blest,
Whose soul poetic ardor fires!
If Phaebus fills his raptured breast, —
If every thought the god inspires!

No dull vacuity he knows,
Who still diverts his leisure hours
Where the Castalian fountain slows,
In gathering sweet Parnassian flowers.

If Mars with threat'ning brow appears,
And angry potentates engage,
To shake once more their hostile spears,

When Cloe 's Charms I warmly sing,
Such Wit she never can reward:
But could she influence the King,
I should, at least, be made a Lord.

That those who write immortal Rhimes,
Should want the Means of mortal Life;
Against the base, degenerate Times,
She finds perpetual Cause of Strife.

So much transported with my Muse,
Her Praise is all she lets me have:
For, while the deathless Bard she views,

 Cupid, a while suspend thy Bow;
Thy Quiver o'er thy Shoulders throw:
Hear why not our united Force
Can touch Amelia with Remorse.

 Her Eyes, the Seats of Heat and Light,
Her sparkling Eyes are Saphires bright:
Rubies immensely rich compose
Her Lips, that shame the blushing Rose.

 Those Hands are Alabaster fine
Which hold this captive Heart of mine:
No Parian Marble may contest
With that which forms her lovely Breast.

 Her Heart assumes the Diamond's Name;
Within, without, she's all the same:

 Imaginary Good, or true,
Immortal Fame, thee all persue;
Thee make their End in all they do!

 For thee th' intrepid Sons of Mars
Rush forth impetuous to the Wars;
Pleas'd, if thou deign to count their Scars.

 Whatever Thoughts the Learn'd impart,
In any Age, in any Art,
Thou art the Prize they have at Heart.

 Tho' Want upon the Poet stares,
For love of Verse and Thee, he dares
Slight all the frightful Forms it wears.

 Yet what thou art we thus admire,
And why at thee Mankind aspire,

Behold your self, and pity me,
Who languish for that Face so fair:
Into my Heart cou'd you but see,
You'd find the same bright Image there.

ON HIS DESIRING ME TO PUBLISH .

With artless Muse, and humble name,
Shall I solicit public fame?
Shall I, who sing the pensive strain,
To soothe a mind oppressed with pain,
Or in the maze of fancy stray,
To pass a cheerless hour away,
Boldly to meet Apollo rise,
And flutter in his native skies?
Presumptuous, giddy, proud, elate,
Forgetting Icarus' sad fate,
High on my treacherous plumage soar,
And fall, like him, to rise no more?
Or, to assume a strain more common,
Shall I, an unknown, untaught woman,