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So idle, yet so restless, are our minds,

We climb the Alps, and brave the raging winds;
Through various toils to seek content we roam,
Which with but thinking right were ours at home.
For not the ceaseless change of shifted place
Can from the heart a settled grief erase,
Nor can the purer balm of foreign air
Heal the distemper'd mind of aching care.
The wretch, by wild impatience driven to rove,
Vext with the pangs of ill-requited love,
From Pole to Pole the fatal arrow bears,
Whose rooted point his bleeeding bosom tears;
With equal pain each different clime he tries,
And is himself that torment which he flies.

For how should ills, which from our passions flow,
Be chang'd by Afric's heat, or Russia's snow?
Or how can aught but powerful reason cure
What from unthinking folly we endure?
Happy is he, and he alone, who knows
His heart's uneasy discord to compose;
In generous love of others' good, to find
The sweetest pleasures of the social mind;
To bound his wishes in their proper sphere;
To nourish pleasing hope, and conquer anxious fear:
This was the wisdom ancient sages taught,
This was the sovereign good they justly sought;
This to no place or climate is confin'd,
But the free native produce of the mind.

Nor think, my lord, that courts to you deny
The useful practice of philosophy:
Horace, the wisest of the tuneful choir,
Not always chose from greatness to retire;
But, in the palace of Augustus, knew
The same unerring maxims to pursue,
Which, in the Sabine or the Velian shade,
His study and his happiness he made.

May you, my friend, by his example taught,
View all the giddy scene with sober thought;
Codazzled every glittering folly see,
And in the midst of slavish forms be free;
In its own centre keep your steady mind,
Let Prudence guide you, but let Honour bind.
In show, in manners, act the courtier's part,
But be a country gentleman at heart.

ADVICE TO A LADY.

M.DCC.XXXI.

THE Counsels of a friend, Belinda, hear,
Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear,
Unlike the flatteries of a lover's pen,
Such truths as women seldom learn from men.
Nor think I praise you ill, when thus I show
What female vanity might fear to know.
Some merit's mine, to dare to be sincere;
But greater your's, sincerity to bear.

Hard is the fortune that your sex attends;
Women, like princes, find few real friends:
All who approach them their own ends pursue;
Lovers and ministers are seldom true.

Hence oft from Reason heedless Beauty strays, And the most trusted guide the most betrays, Hence, by fond dreams of fancied power amus'd, When most ye tyrannise, you 're most abus'd.

What is your sex's earliest, latest care, Your heart's supreme ambition?-To be fair. For this, the toilet every thought employs, Hence all the toils of dress, and all the joys;

For this, hands, lips, and eyes, are put to school,
And each instructed feature has its rule:
And yet how few have learnt, when this is given,
Not to disgrace the partial boon of Heaven!
How few with all their pride of form can move!
How few are lovely, that are made for love!
Do you, my fair, endeavour to possess
An elegance of mind as well as dress;
Be that your ornament, and know to please
By graceful Nature's unaffected ease.

Nor make to dangerous wit a vain pretence,
But wisely rest content with modest sense;
For wit, like wine, intoxicates the brain,
Too strong for feeble woman to sustain:
Of those who claim it more than half have none;
And half of those who have it are undone.

Be still superior to your sex's arts, Nor think dishonesty a proof of parts: For you, the plainest is the wisest rule: A cunning woman is a knavish fool.

Be good yourself, nor think another's shame
Can raise your merit, or adorn your fame.
Prudes rail at whores, as statesmen in disgrace
At ministers, because they wish their place.
Virtue is amiable, mild, serene;

Without, all beauty; and all peace within:
The honour of a prude is rage and storm,
'Tis ugliness in its most frightful form.
Fiercely it stands, defying gods and men,
As fiery monsters guard a giant's den.

Seek to be good, but aim not to be great:
A woman's noblest station is retreat:
Her fairest virtues fly from public sight,
Domestic worth, that shuns too strong a light.
To rougher man Ambition's task resign:
'Tis ours in senates or in courts to shine;
To labour for a sunk corrupted state,-
Or dare the rage of Envy, and be great.
One only care your gentle breasts should move,
Th' important business of your life is love;
To this great point direct your constant aim,
This makes your happiness, and this your fame.
Be never cool reserve with passion join'd;
With caution choose; but then be fondly kind.
The selfish heart, that but by halves is given,
Shall find no place in Love's delightful Heaven;
Here sweet extremes alone can truly bless:
The virtue of a lover is excess.

A maid unask'd may own a well-plac'd flame;
Not loving first, but loving wrong, is shame.
Contemn the little pride of giving pain,
Nor think that conquest justifies disdain.
Short is the period of insulting power:
Offended Cupid finds his vengeful hour;
Soon will resume the empire which he gave,
And soon the tyrant shall become the slave.

Blest is the maid, and worthy to be blest,
Whose soul, entire by him she loves possest,
Feels every vanity in fondness lost,
And asks no power but that of pleasing most:
Hers is the bliss, in just return, to prove
The honest warmth of undissembled love;
For her, inconstant man might cease to range,
And gratitude forbid desire to change.

But, lest harsh Care the lover's peace destroy,
And roughly blight the tender buds of joy,
Let Reason teach what Passion fain would hide,
That Hymen's bands by Prudence should be tied,
Venus in vain the wedded pair would crown,
If angry Fortune on their union frown:

Soon will the flattering dream of bliss be o'er,
And cloy'd imagination cheat no more.
Then, waking to the sense of lasting pain,
With mutual tears the nuptial couch they stain;
And that fond love, which should afford relief,
Does but increase the anguish of their grief:
While both could easier their own sorrows bear,
Than the sad knowledge of each other's care.

Yet may you rather feel that virtuous pain,
Than sell your violated charms for gain;
Than wed the wretch whom you despise or hate,
For the vain glare of useless wealth or state.
The most abandoned prostitutes are they,
Who not to love, but avarice, fall a prey:
Nor aught avails the specious name of wife;
A maid so wedded is a whore for life.

[ven

Ev'n in the happiest choice, where favouring HeaHas equal love and easy fortune given, Think not, the husband gain'd, that all is done: The prize of happiness must still be won: And oft, the careless find it to their cost, The lover in the husband may be lost; The Graces might alone his heart allure; They and the Virtues meeting must secure.

Let ev'n your prudence wear the pleasing dress Of care for him, and anxious tenderness. From kind concern about his weal or woe, Let each domestic duty seem to flow. The household sceptre if he bids you bear, Make it your pride his servant to appear: Endearing thus the common acts of life, The mistress still shall charm him in the wife ; And wrinkled age shall unobserv'd come on, Before his eye perceives one beauty gone: Ev'n o'er your cold, your ever-sacred urn,、 His constant flame, shall unextinguish'd burn. Thus I, Belinda, would your charms improve, And form your heart to all the arts of love. The task were harder, to secure my own Against the power of those already known: For well you twist the secret chains that bind With gentle force the captivated mind, Skill'd every soft attraction to employ, Each flattering hope, and each alluring joy. I own your genius; and from you receive The rules of pleasing, which to you I give.

SONG.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1752.

WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice but her's can hear,
No other wit but her's approve :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

If she some other youth commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When she is absent, I do more
Delight in all that pleas'd before,

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DAMON.

Unkind! my falsehood to upbraid,
When your own orders I obey'd;
You bid me try, by this deceit,
The notice of the world to cheat,
And hide, beneath another name,
The secret of our mutual flame.

DELIA.

Damon, your prudence I confess,
But let me wish it had been less;
Too well the lover's part you play'd,

With too much art your court you made;

Had it been only art, your eyes
Would not have join'd in the disguise.

DAMON.

Ah! cease thus idly to molest
With groundless fears thy virgin breast.
While thus at fancied wrongs you grieve,
To me a real pain you give.

DELIA.

Though well I might your truth distrust,
My foolish heart believes you just:
Reason this faith may disapprove;
But I believe, because I love.

ODE.

IN IMITATION OF PASTOR FIDO.

(O primavera gioventu del anno.)
WRITTEN ABROAD IN 1729.

PARENT of blooming flowers and gay desires,
Youth of the tender year, delightful Spring,
At whose approach, inspir'd with equal fires,
The amorous nightingale and
poet sing!

Again dost thou return, but not with thee
Return the smiling hours I once possest;
Blessings thou bring'st to others, but to me
The sad remembrance that I once was blest.

Thy faded charms, which Winter snatch'd away,
Renew'd in all their former lustre shine;
But, ah! no more shall hapless I be gay,
Or know the vernal joys that have been mine.

Though linnets sing, though flowers adorn the green,
Though on their wings soft Zephyrs fragrance bear:
Harsh is the music, joyless is the scene,

The odour faint: for Delia is not there.

Cheerless and cold I feel the genial Sun,
From thee while absent I in exile rove;
Thy lovely presence, fairest light, alone
Can warm my heart to gladness and to love.

PARTS OF AN ELEGY OF TIBULLUS.
TRANSLATED, 1729-30.

(Divitias alius fulvo sibi congerat auro.)
Ler others heap of wealth a shining store,
And, much possessing, labour still for more;
Let them, disquieted with dire alarms,
Aspire to win a dangerous fame in arms:
VOL XIV.

Me tranquil poverty shall lull to rest,
Humbly secure, and indolently blest;
Warm'd by the blaze of my own cheerful hearth,
I'll waste the wintry hours in social mirth;
In summer pleas'd attend to harvest toils,
In autumn press the vineyard's purple spoils,
And oft to Delia in my bosom bear

Some kid, or lamb, that wants its mother's care:
With her I'll celebrate each gladsome day,
When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay:
With her new milk on Pales' altar pour,
And deck with ripen'd fruits Pomona's bower.
At night, how soothing would it be to hear,
Safe in her arms, the tempest howling near;
Or, while the wintry clouds their deluge pour,
Slumber, assisted by the beating shower!
Ah! how much happier, than the fool who braves,
In search of wealth, the black tempestuous waves!
While I, contented with my little store,
In tedious voyage seek no distant shore;
But, idly lolling on some shady seat,
Near cooling fountains shun the dog-star's heat:
For what reward so rich could Fortune give,
That I by absence should my Delia grieve?
Let great Messalla shine in martial toils,
And grace his palace with triumphal spoils;
Me Beauty holds, in strong though gentle chains,
Far from tumultuous war and dusty plains.
With thee, my love, to pass my tranquil days,
How would I slight Ambition's painful praise!
How would I joy with thee, my love, to yoke
The ox, and feed my solitary flock!

On thy soft breast might I but lean my head,
How downy should I think the woodland bed!

The wretch, who sleeps not by his fair-one's
side,

Detests the gilded couch's useless pride,
Nor knows his weary weeping eyes to close,
Though murmuring rills invite him to repose.
Hard were his heart, who thee, my fair, could leave
For all the honours prosperous war can give;
Though through the vanquish'd East he spread his
fame,

And Parthian tyrants tremble at his name;
Though, bright in arms, while hosts around him bleed,
With martial pride he prest his foaming steed.
No pomps like these my humble vows require;
With thee I'll live, and in thy arms expire.
Thee may my closing eyes in death behold!
Thee may my faultering hand yet strive to hold!
Then o'er my breathless clay thy tears will flow;
Then, Delia, then, thy heart will melt in woe,
Thy tears will flow, for gentle is thy mind,

Nor dost thou think it weakness to be kind.
But, ah! fair mourner, I conjure thee, spare
Thy heaving breasts and loose dishevell'd hair:
Wound not thy form; lest on th' Elysian coast
Thy anguish should disturb my peaceful ghost.

But now nor death nor parting should employ
Our sprightly thoughts, or damp our bridal joy:
We'll live, my Delia; and from life remove
All care, all business, but delightful love.
Old
age in vain those pleasures would retrieve
Which youth alone can taste, alone can give :
Then let us snatch the moment to be blest,
This hour is Love's-be Fortune's all the rest.

N

SONG.

To both, from courts and all their state,

Eager I fly, to prove

Joys far above a courtier's fate,
Tranquillity and love.

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TO MISS LUCY FORTESCUE.

ONCE, by the Muse alone inspir'd

I sung my amorous strains: No serious love my bosom fir'd; Yet every tender maid, deceiv'd, The idly-mournful tale believ'd,

And wept my fancied pains.

But Venus now, to punish me

For having. feign'd so well, Has made my heart so fond of thee, That not the whole Aonian choir Can accents soft enough inspire, Its real flame to tell.

T0 ᎢᎻᎬ ᏚᎪᎷᎬ ;

WITH HAMMOND'S ELEGIES.

ALL that of love can be express'd,
In these soft numbers see;
But, Lucy, would you know the rest,
It must be read in me.

TO THE SAME.

To him who in an hour must die,
Not swifter seems that hour to fly,
Than slow the minutes seem to me,
Which keep me from the sight of thee.

Not more that trembling wretch would give, Another day or year to live,

Than I to shorten what remains

Of that long hour which thee detains.

Oh! come to my impatient arms,

Oh! come, with all thy heavenly charms, At once to justify and pay

The pain I feel from this delay.

TO THE SAME.

To ease my troubled mind of anxious care, Last night the secret casket I explor'd, Where all the letters of my absent fair

His richest treasure careful love had stor❜d.

In every word a magic spell I found

Of power to charm each busy thought to rest; Though every word increas'd the tender wound Of fond desire still throbbing in my breast.

So to his hoarded gold the miser steals, And loses every sorrow at the sight; Yet wishes still for more, nor ever feels Entire contentment, or secure delights

Ah! should I lose thee, my too lovely maid,
Couldst thou forget thy heart was ever mine,
Fear not thy letters should the change upbraid;
My hand each dear memorial shall resign:

Not one kind word shall in my power remain,
A painful witness of reproach to thee;
And lest my heart should still their sense retain,
My heart shall break, to leave thee wholly free.

A PRAYER TO VENUS.

IN HER TEMPLE AT STOW.

TO THE SAME.

FAIR Venus, whose delightful shrine surveys
Its front reflected in the silver lake,
These humble offerings, which thy servant pays,
Fresh flowers, and myrtle wreaths, propitious take.

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.

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

No other wish nor other object knows: Oh! make her, goddess, make her all my own, And give my trembling heart secure repose!

No watchful spies I ask, to guard her charms, No walls of brass, no steel-defended door: Place her but once within my circling arms, Love's surest fort, and I will doubt no more.

TO THE SAME.

Your shape, your lips, your eyes, are still the same,
Still the bright object of my constant flame;
But where is now the tender glance, that stole,
With gentle sweetness, my enchanted soul?
Kind fears, impatient wishes, soft desires,
Each melting charm that love alone inspires?
These, these are lost; and I behold ro more
The maid my heart delighted to adore.
Yet, still unchang'd, still doating to excess,
I ought, but dare not try, to love you less;
Weakly I grieve, unpitied I complain;

But not unpunish'd shall your change remain;
For you, cold maid, whom no complaints can move,
Were far more blest, when you like me could love.

TO THE SAME.

WHEN I think on your truth, I doubt you no more,
I blame all the fears I gave way to before:
I say to my heart, "Be at rest, and believe
That whom once she has chosen she never will
leave."

But, ah! when I think on each ravishing grace
That plays in the smiles of that heavenly face;
My heart beats again; I again apprehend
Some fortunate rival in every friend.

These painful suspicions you cannot remove, Since you neither can lessen your charms nor my love;

But doubts caus'd by passion you never can blame; For they are not ill founded, or you feel the same.

TO THE SAME.

ON HER PLEADING WANT OF TIME,

Ox Thames's bank, a gentle youth
For Lucy sigh'd, with matchless truth,
Ev'n when he sigh'd in rhyme;
The lovely maid his flame return'd,

And would with equal warmth have burn'd,
But that she had not time.

Oft he repair'd with eager feet
In secret shades his fair to meet,
Beneath th' accustom'd lime:

She would have fondly met him there,
And heal'd with love each tender care,
But that she had not time.

"It was not thus, inconstant maid! You acted once," the shepherd said, "When love was in its prime :" She griev'd to hear him thus complain; And would have writ, to ease his pain, But that she had not time.

"How can you act so cold a part?

No crime of mine has chang'd your heart,
If love be not a crime.—

We soon must part for months, for years"-
She would have answer'd with her tears,
But that she had not time.

TO THE SAME.

WITH A NEW WATCH.

WITH me while present may thy lovely eyes Be never turn'd upon this golden toy: Think every pleasing hour too swiftly flies; And measure time, by joy succeeding joy!

But when the cares that interrupt our bliss To me not always will thy sight allow ; Then oft with kind impatience look on this, Then every minute count-as I do now.

AN IRREGULAR ODE. WRITTEN AT WICKHAM IN 1746.

TO THE SAME.

YE sylvan scenes with artless beauty gay,
Ye gentle shades of Wickham, say,
What is the charm that each successive year,
Which sees me with my Lucy here,
Can thus to my transported heart
A sense of joy unfelt before, impart ?

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