On his sure virtue long let earth rely,
And late let the imperial eagle fly,
To bear the hero through his father's sky
To Leda's twins, or he whose glorious speed
On foot prevail'd, or he who tamed the steed:
To Hercules at length, absolved by Fate
From earthly toil, and above envy great;
To Virgil's theme, bright Cytherea's son,
Sire of the Latian and the British throne;
To all the radiant names above,
Revered by men, and dear to Jove:
Late, Janus, let the Nassau-star,
New-born, in rising majesty appear,
To triumph over vanquish'd night,
And guide the prosperous mariner
With everlasting beams of friendly light.
Atque in amore mala hæc proprio, summeque secundo
Inveniuntur-
WHAT can I say, what arguments can prove
My truth, what colours can describe my love,
If its excess and fury be not known
In what thy Celia has already done?
Thy infant flames, whilst yet they were conceal'd
In timorous doubts, with pity I beheld;
With easy smiles dispell'd the silent fear,
That durst not tell me what I died to hear.
In vain I strove to check my growing flame,
Or shelter passion under friendship's name ;
You saw my heart how it my tongue belied,
And when you press'd, how faintly I denied.-
Ere guardian Thought could bring its scatter'd aid,
Ere Reason could support the doubting maid,
My soul surprised, and from herself disjoin'd,
Left all reserve, and all the sex behind:
From your command her motions she received,
And not for me, but you, she breathed and lived.
But ever bless'd be Cytherea's shrine,
And fires eternal on her altars shine,
Since thy dear breast has felt an equal wound,
Since in thy kindness my desires are crown'd.
By thy each look, and thought, and care, 'tis shown
Thy joys are centred all in me alone;
And sure I am, thou wouldst not change this hour
For all the white ones Fate has in its power.-
Yet thus beloved, thus loving to excess,
Yet thus receiving and returning bliss;
In this great moment, in this golden now,
When every trace of what, or when, or how,
Should from my soul by raging love be torn,
And far on swelling seas of rapture borne,
A melancholy tear afflicts my eye,
And my heart labours with a sudden sigh;
Invading fears repel my coward joy,
And ills foreseen the present bliss destroy.
Poor as it is, this beauty was the cause
That with first sighs your panting bosom rose:
But with no owner beauty long will stay,
Upon the wings of Time borne swift away.
Pass but some fleeting years, and these poor eyes
(Where now, without a boast, some lustre lies)
No longer shall their little honours keep,
Shall only be of use to read or weep;
And on this forehead, where your verse has said The Loves delighted, and the Graces 'play'd, Insulting Age will trace his cruel way,
And leave sad marks of his destructive sway. Moved by my charms, with them your love may
And as the fuel sinks, the flame decrease:
Or angry Heaven may quicker darts prepare,
And sickness strike what time awhile would spare:
Then will my swain his glowing vows renew?
Then will his throbbing heart to mine beat true,
When my own face deters me from my glass,
And Kneller only shows what Celia was?
Fantastic Fame may sound her wild alarms:
Your country, as you think, may want your arms :
You may neglect, or quench, or hate the flame
Whose smoke too long obscured your rising name,
And quickly cold indifference will ensue,
When you love's joys through honour's optic view.
Then Celia's loudest prayer will prove too weak
To this abandon'd breast to bring you back:
When my lost lover the tall ship ascends,
With music gay, and wet with jovial friends,
The tender accents of a woman's cry
Will pass unheard, will unregarded die;
When the rough seaman's louder shouts prevail,
When fair occasion shows the springing gale,
And interest guides the helm, and honour swells
the sail.
Some wretched lines from this neglected hand May find my hero on the foreign strand, [mand; Warm with new fires, and pleased with new com
While she who wrote them, of all joy bereft,
To the rude censure of the world is left;
Her mangled fame in barbarous pastime lost,
The coxcomb's novel, and the drunkard's toast.
But nearer care (O pardon it!) supplies
Sighs to my breast and sorrow to my eyes:
Love, Love himself (the only friend I have)
May scorn his triumph, having bound his slave:
That tyrant god, that restless conqueror,
May quit his pleasure, to assert his power;
Forsake the provinces that bless his sway,
To vanquish those which will not yet obey.
Another nymph, with fatal power, may rise
To damp the sinking beams of Celia's eyes:
With haughty pride may hear her charms confess'd,
And scorn the ardent vows that I have bless'd.
You every night may sigh for her in vain,
And rise each morning to some fresh disdain:
While Celia's softest look may cease to charm,
And her embraces want the power to warm;
While these fond arms, thus circling you, may
prove
More heavy chains than those of hopeless love.
Just gods! all other things their like produce;
The vine arises from her mother's juice;
When feeble plants or tender flowers decay,
They to their seed their images convey;
Where the old myrtle her good influence sheds,
Sprigs of like leaf erect their filial heads;
And when the parent-rose decays and dies,
With a resembling face the daughter-buds arise.
That product only which our passions bear
Eludes the planter's miserable care:
While blooming Love assures us golden fruit,
Some inborn poison taints the secret root;
Soon fall the flowers of joy, soon seeds of hatred
shoot.
Say, shepherd, say, are these reflections true?
Or was it but the woman's fear that drew
This cruel scene, unjust to love and you?
Will you be only and for ever mine?
Shall neither time nor age our souls disjoin?
From this dear bosom shall I ne'er be torn?
Or you grow cold, respectful, and forsworn?
And can you not for her you love do more
Than any youth for any nymph before?
FIRST BOOK OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.
Nympha, precor, Penei mane.
ABATE, fair fugitive, abate thy speed,
Dismiss thy fears, and turn thy beauteous head;
With kind regard a panting lover view;
Less swiftly fly, less swiftly I'll pursue :
Pathless, alas! and rugged is the ground,
Some stone may hurt thee, or some thorn may
wound.
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