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!

Cease, soft Belinda , to deplore
Your favour'd Dove , who feels no more,
Nor can your Grief the Loss repair;
Rather compassionate your Swain ,
Who lives , and loves, and sighs in vain,
And longs for Death to end his Care .

Who can describe, in Numbers fit,
All the new Pangs by Lovers found;
When, undesigning, first they meet;
Give and receive the destin'd Wound?

Who can? Yet since this friendly Lay
Damon demands, O Muse rehearse
What govern'd Fancy bids thee say —
May Phaebus aid the flowing Verse!

Love wears a Thousand diff'rent Forms;
He wins the Heart a Thousand Ways:
Now like a Deity he storms;

I.

As lovesick Damon lay along
 Beneath a melancholy Shade ,
Sooth'd by the nightly Warbler 's Song,
 Thus the unhappy Shepherd said,

II.

Sweet Philomel , who haunt the Grove ,
 Where I lament my wretched Fate ,
Our joint Complaint , alas! is Love ,
 The Diff'rence of our Fortune great.

III.

Relief to me no Seasons bring,
 For ever doom'd, to sigh in vain;
But you, sweet Bird , who mourn in Spring ,
 In Summer Pleasures lose your Pain .

IV.

Already from yon bloomy Spray,

(A spirit with a naked sword.)

— A shadowy form I come from Babigor;
Sent by thy country to her doubting son —
O! on love's triflings waste thy soul no more:
Mina, or country — choose, and choose but one. —

(A spirit with a bent bow.)

— I visit thee from love's flower-scatter'd shore;
Three days my arrow Lada has possess'd
To sharpen — tell me, tell me, I implore —
Dost love thy country or thy Mina best? —
The midnight struck — I left the awful spot:
My eye still fix'd upon the misty shade —

Cloe, as sweet as vernal Flow'rs,
Lov'd Partner of my softer Hours,
As Venus fair, as Turtles kind,
Airy, and wanton as the Wind;
That you may still more charming prove,
Behold soft Ovid 's Art of Love!
But who, that to the Combat goes,
Against himself e'er arm'd his Foes?
If you are true , as you profess,
This ne'er can make you; love me less ;
If, false , you wou'd in Art excell,
'Twill teach you to deceive me well.

Upon Love's sea, our barques shall sail
No more together;
The dark'ning sky and rising gale
Bring stormy weather.

The cruel Fates, at last, sweetheart,
Our love must sever, —
Must furl our sails, drift us apart
For aye and ever.

I pray a sunny port be thine,
When storm is over;
I know whatever lot be mine,
I'm still thy lover.

Upon Love's sea, our barques shall sail
No more together;
The dark'ning sky and rising gale
Bring stormy weather.

The cruel Fates, at last, sweetheart,

1

C. C. Rider, just see what you have done!
You made me love you, now yo' woman's done come!
You made me love you, now yo' woman's done come!
You made me love you, now yo' woman's done come!

2

You caused me, Rider, to hang my head and cry;
You put me down; God knows I don't see why!
You put me down; God knows I don't see why!
You put me down; God knows I don't see why!

Did fear but reach thy heart, how good it were!
Hadst thou but pity on poor me, how good it were!
I that for love of thee stand at the door lamenting,
Did thy ears but hear my pleading, how good it were!
Were they who blame me for my love of thee
But acquainted with thy beauty, how good it were!
Whoever to-day of purity boasts in this world,
Did he but see thy face, pure indeed would he be and chaste!
After death, were my grave in such a place,
That o'er it lay my loved one's path, how good it were!
At thy gateway many hounds and spaniels lie,

There be three things real in all the earth:
Mother-love, Death, and a Little Child's mirth.