Yet, to regain my loft repofe,

My penfive mind fhall foothe its woes,
For ever fix'd on thee;

On thee fhall every thought attend;
But wilt thou ever condefcend

To fix one thought on me?

On diftant shores my mournful groans
Shall afk the melancholy ftones
Where can my charmer be?
From morn to eve my (earch fhall laft;
But who can tell if thou wilt caft
One fingle thought on me!

In fancied fcenes, the happy spot,
Where thou and blifs were once my lot,
My cheated mind shall see ;

A thousand thoughts fhall wake my pain;
But who can tell if thou wilt deign
To fix one thought on me!

• There, fhall I fay, in yonder grove,
To all my tender tales of love,
• Difdainful would fhe be;

Yet foon her gentle hand I prefs'd,

Again, I hop'd, but can her breaft
Retain one thought of me!'

Where-e'er thou goeft, in every land,
What numerous flaves to thy command
Thy conquering eyes fhall fee!
Ye Gods! who knows, if, fair, and young,
Thy heart, 'midft fuch a flattering throng,
Will keep one thought for me!

Yet think thy lover's only aim
Was a pure, generous mutual flame,
And what his pains must be;

Think what he feels at this farewell;
Think, dearest maid ;-Ah! who can tell
If e'er thou'lt think on me?

LIBERTY.

LIBERTY. LA LIBERTA.

Newly tranflated from Metaftafio.

HANKS, Nicè, to thy treacherous arts,
At length I breathe again;

The pitying gods have ta'en my part,
And eas'd a wretch's pain:

I feel, I feel, that from its chain
My rescued foul is free,
Nor is it now I idly dream,
Of fancied liberty.

Extinguish'd is my ancient flame,
All calm my thoughts remain ;
And artful love in vain fhall strive
To lurk beneath disdain.

No longer, when thy name I hear,
My conscious colour flies;
No longer, when thy face I fee,
My heart's emotions rife.

I fleep, yet not in every dream
Thy image pictur'd fee;

I wake, nor does my alter'd mind
Fix its first thought on thee;
From thee far diftant when I roam,

No fond concern I know;

With thee I stay, nor yet from thence
Does pain or pleasure flow.

Oft of my Nicè's charms I fpeak,

Nor thrills my steadfaft heart;

Oft I review the wrongs I bore,
Yet feel no inward fmart.
No quick alarms confound my fenfe,
When Nicè near I fee;

Even with my rival I can fmile,
And calmly talk of thee.

Speak to me with a placid mien,

Or treat me with difdain;

Vain is to me the look fevere,
The gentle fmile as vain.

VOL. VIII.

U

Loft

Loft is the empire o'er my foul,
Which once thofe lips poffeft;
Thofe eyes no longer can divine
Each fecret of my breast.

What pleases now, or grieves my mind,
What makes me fad or gay,
It is not in thy power to give,
Nor canft thou take away;

Each pleasant spot without thee charms,
The wood, the mead, the hill;
And fcenes of dulnefs, even with thee,
Are scenes of dulnefs fill.

Judge, if I fpeak with tongue fincere
Thou ftill art wond'rous fair;
Great are the beauties of thy form,
But not beyond compare;
And, let not truth offend thine ear,
My eyes at length incline
To fpy fome faults in that lov'd face,
Which once appear'd divine.

When from its fecret deep recefs
I tore the painful dart

(My fhameful weaknefs I confefs),
It feem'd to fplit my heart;
But, to relieve a tortur'd mind,
To triumph o'er difdain,
To gain my captive felf once more,
I'd fuffer every pain.

Caught by the birdlime's treacherous twigs,
To which he chanc'd to ftray,

The bird his faften'd feathers leaves,
Then gladly flies away :'

His fhorten'd wings he foon renews,

Of Inares no more afraid;

Then grows by paft experience wise,
Nor is again betray'd.

I know thy pride can ne'er believe
My paffion's fully o'er,

Because I oft repeat the tale,

And fill add fomething more:

Tis natural inftinct prompts my tongue,
And makes the story last.

As all mankind are fond to boast

Of dangers they have paft.

The warrior thus, the combat o'er,
Recounts his bloody wars,

Tells all the hardships which he bore,
And fhews his ancient fcars.

Thus the glad flave, by profperous fate,
Freed from the fervile chain,

Shews to each friend the galling weight,
Which once he dragg'd with pain.

I fpeak, yet, fpeaking, all my aim
Is but to eafe my mind;

I fpeak, yet care not if my words
With thee can credit find;

I fpeak, nor ask if my discourse
Is e'er approv'd by thee,
Or whether thou with equal ease
Doft talk again of me.

I leave a light inconftant maid,
Thou'ft loft a heart fincere;

I know not which wants comfort moft,
Or which has moft to fear:
I'm fure, a fwain fo fond and true,

Nicè can never find;

A nymph like her is quickly found,
Falfe, faithlefs, and unkind.

To STELLA, March 23, 1723-4. By Dean Swift.

Written on the day of her birth, but not on the subject, when I was fick in bed.]

Although 'tis easy to defcry

She wants affistance more than I;
Yet feems to feel my pains alone,
And is a Stoic in her own.
When, among scholars, can we find
So foft, and yet so firm a mind?
All accidents of life confpire
To raise up Stella's virtus higher;
Or elfe, to introduce the feft

Which had been latent in her breast.
Her firmness who could e'er have known,
Had the not evils of her own?

Her kindness who could ever guess,
Had not her friends been in diftrefs?
Whatever bafe returns you find

From me, dear Stella, ftill be kind.
In your own heart you'll reap the fruit,
Though I continue ftill a crate.
But, when I once am out of pain,
I promise to be good again :
Meantime, your other juiter friends.
Shall for my follies make amends;
So may we long continue thus,
Admiring you, you pitying us

BRYAN and PEREENE. A Weft Indian Ballad; from Reliques of ancient English Poetry; founded on a real fact, that happened about three years ago in the island of St. Chriftopher's.

THE

HE north-east wind did briskly blow,
The ship was fafely moor'd,

Young Bryan thought the boat's crew flow,
And fo leapt over-board.

Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,
His heart long held in thrall,

And whofo his impatience blames,
I wot, ne'er loy'd at all.

A long, long year, one month and day,
He dwelt on English land,

Nor once in thought would ever tray,
Though ladies fought his hand.

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