O Strephon! how useless your Counsel must prove,
Who sighs for Belinda for ever must love;
For thus the dread Power of Love has decreed!
Who once wears her Fetters shall never be freed,
On absolute Beauty an absolute Sway
Is justly bestow'd, and with Pride we obey.

Thou com'st, fair daughter of the Spring!
Ah! must I shun thee, lovely May?
No more to thee sweet incense bring,
Or deck thy shrine with chaplets gay?

Far distant from thy sportive train,
Must I to some lone rock retreat?
There to the curling waves complain,
Who, pitying, wash my weary feet,

That I no more with pleasure see
Thy various beauties, lovely May, —
The op'ning flow'r, the blossom'd tree,

I.

'Tis strange, Belinda , you shou'd ask,
To learn , what you so oft bestow !
You now impose too hard a Task ,
And I my Weakness needs must show.

II.

What Love is not, I know full well:
Blind Mortals , when they talk of Pain,
And Joys of Heaven , or of Hell ,
By Negatives the Theme maintain.

III.

True Love is not that rash Desire,
That sudden Start of Grief , and Joy ,

From the Cradle to the Grave
Mighty Love does all inslave.
First in Miss , and Master 's Brain
He begins his idle reign:
Nymphs , and Swains , and purling Streams,
Rival Knights , and rival Queens ,
Dreams of Pleasure pure as they,
(Symptoms of approaching Day)
In their dawning Fancies play;
Wishes , which in forming dye,
Tender Sighs they scarce know why.
Sighs , at length, awake Desire ,
Love becomes a raging Fire ,
Strongly seizes every Part,
Warms the Blood, and wounds the Heart .

The morning beaming on the flowery beds,
Whose gems give back its beauty, light and grace,
Is far less lovely than thy lovely face —
Where Lada all her rays of radiance spreads.
The chaste but glowing pencil of the spring,
Which paints the may-rose, has no tint to give
So fair as these thy sweet lips' colouring,
With ever-living smiles that round them live.
The bending of thy beauteous arms is fairer
Than the gold strings of the musician's bow,
So magical: — to what shall I compare her!
To fable's dreams? O no! for here a rarer

Take these few verses, all too idly done
In English, — pondering the weary while
Of English fields, and faces, and the smile
Of those we loved whose golden sands have run,
Of hopes that flowered not, duties scarce begun, —
Along the changeless banks of tawny Nile,
Or scanning Karnak's immemorial pile
Lit with the glory of the dying sun
My Poet sang them in a different scene,
Bright child of Paris, blent of joys and fears,
He loved, and sinned, and suffered, most serene
When winning most the poor man's mirth or tears:

My country calls me, Kraska! dry thine eyes,
Disturb not with thy tears youth's quiet flow;
Rend not my heart — nor chill thine own with sighs;
Thy rosy cheeks are mantled o'er with snow —
Weep not because thy Ceskian leaves thee — No!
The mighty lion on the flag unfurl'd,
Roars with loud voice, and bids the warriors go —
Wealth, heart, and blood — our country — and the world.

How sweet and silent were our early days,
Gliding like meadow streamlets soft and still;
Enjoyment threw o'er every hour its rays,

I've sown the millet, yet I dare not reap the millet sown,
I've lov'd the maiden, and I shrink from calling her my own.

To sow and reap not — love and keep not — strange and sad decree;
Sown, not gather'd — lov'd, not wedded — luckless doom for me.

Beneath the ash tree, near the mill upon the mountain brow,
My maiden swore eternal love — where is her promise now?

I gave a garland — from a farland — and she gave a ring
To her lover — idle treasure — which no love could bring.

To those fair lips, as poppies red, what kisses have I given;

Florinda, fond our Hearts to move,
Forth all at once her Art will call:
'Tis at first Sight she gains your Love,
Or she can ne'er disturb at all.

Not so divine Amelia tries,
Nor of such Conquests would she boast;
She knows what's taken by Surprize,
May by the next Surprize be lost.

She, with a softer, easier Grace,
Kindles at first a gentle Fire;
But whensoe'er you see her Face,

Love's for Youth, and not for Age,
E'en though Age should wear a crown;
For the Poet, not the Sage;
Not the Monarch, but the Clown.

Love 's for Peace, and not for War,
E'en though War bring all renown;
For the Violet, not the Star;
For the Meadow, not the Town.

Love 's for lads and Love 's for maids,
Courts a smile and flees a frown;
Love 's for Love, and saucy jades
Love Love most when Love has flown.

Love a cruel tyrant is:
Slays his victims with a glance,
Straight recovers with a kiss,