love poem

IN HER TEMPLE AT STOWE .

To the Same.

I.

Fair Venus! whose delightful shrine surveys
Its front reflected in the silver lake,
These humble off'rings which thy servant pays,
Fresh flow'rs and myrtle wreaths, propitious take.

II.

If less my love exceeds all other love
Than Lucy's charms all other charms excel,
Far from my breast each soothing hope remove,
And there let sad Despair for ever dwell.

III.

But if my soul is fill'd with her alone,

WITH HAMMOND'S ELEGIES .

All that of love can be exprest
In these soft numbers see;
But, Lucy! would you know the rest
It must be read in me.

By H ARRIET F ALCONAR .

A P PROACHING now, the lovely Spring
Revives the village swain;
The cuckow spreads her gladsome wing
O'er ev'ry blooming plain.

The humble cowslip droops her head
Unconscious of her charms;
The yellow primrose paints the mead,
That vernal radiance warms.

The pregnant earth its herbage yields,
The lucid streamlets flow;

Tell me not Celia once did Bless
Another Mortal's Arms;
That cannot make My Passion less,
Nor mitigate Her Charms.

Shall I refuse to quench My Thirst,
Depending Life to save,
Because some droughty Shepherd first
Has kiss'd the smiling Wave?

No, no; methinks 'tis wond'rous Great,
And suits a Noble Blood,
To have in Love , as well as State ,
A Taster to Our Food .

A SONG .

As with Louisa late I sat,
In yonder secret grove,
How fondly did each bosom beat,
And pour its tale of love!

Eve's tuneful bird, with sweetest lay,
Inspir'd the tranquil place:
Eve's silver star, with purest ray,
Beam'd on the chaste embrace.

But now the tender scene is o'er,
What tongue my grief can tell?

Where yonder ivy clasps Religion's dome,
And in its vest of solemn green attires;
Where the high grass looks down on man's last home,
And each base weed above him proud aspires;

A youth is laid, who long ne'er knew to close
Those eyes, that now are clos'd for ever there:
No more in Virtue's cause his bosom glows;
No more on Misery drops his honest tear.

Mild as the breath that fans the vernal sky,
His soul, Benevolence, was all thine own!
Open as day, in his ingenuous eye,

1.

Madam, believe 't, Love is not such a toy,
As it is sport but for the Idle Boy,
Or wanton Youth, since it can entertain
Our serious thoughts, and make us know how vain
All time is spent we do not thus imploy.

2.

For though strong passion oft on youth doth seize,
It is not yet affection, but disease,
Caus'd from repletion, which their blood doth vex,
So that they love not Woman, but the Sex,

1.

Since in your face, as in a beauteous sphere,
Delight and state so sweetly mix'd appear,
That Love's not light, nor Gravity severe,
All your attractive Graces seem to draw,
A modest rigor keepeth so in aw,
That in their turns each of them gives the law.

2.

Therefore though chast and vertuous desire
Through that your native mildness may aspire,
Untill a just regard it doth acquire;

PETER PUMPKIN-HEAD

DEFEATED BY TABITHA TOWZER.

CANTO I .

Of Tabitha Towzer I sing,
Pray list to my delicate ditty,
My verse like brass kettle shall ring,
Or sleigh bells, which gingle so pretty.

Then loud as a conch shell I'll sound,
In this my fine cantering metre,
What virtues and graces abound
In Tabitha Towzer's friend Peter.

Crown me Bacchus, mighty god,
The victory is thine,
Cupid's bow yields to thy rod,
And love submits to wine:

Love, the dream of idle boys,
That makes the sage an ass,
Love cannot vie with those sweet joys
That crown the sparkling glass.

II.

To plunge in care let lovers whine,
Such fools who will be may,
Good fellows glass in hand combine