Sidor som bilder

The silken fringe that veils the eye,

The dimpled chin, love's dear abode; The swelling lips of coral dye,

Those lips, whence notes soul-rending flow'd.

Still I beheld, as in a bower,

The charming maid sequester'd stood; Her head was crown'd with many a flow'r, The produce of her native wood.

She thought no fond intruder near,
And tenderly of love she sung;
Sweet philomel, those strains to hear,
Far from her nest in rapture hung.

"Collin," she said, "has chang'd his love,
And yet upon my Collin's brow,
The wreath of flow'rs I careful wove,
Glows in unfaded beauty now.

"Young Emma's hand he oft has press'd, Extoll'd her form, and wond'ring gaz'd; Nor was I ere till then distress'd,

To hear the beauteous Emma prais'd.

"Yet Collin was my earliest choice, And I to death will true remain."She spoke I blest her tuneful voice,

I curs'd the young inconstant swain.

She left the bower to seek a lamb,
That near in frisking gambols play'd;
Her Collin took it from the dam,
And gave it to his plighted maid.

Then she beheld a stranger near,
Her cheek assum'd a deeper red;
In her soft eye I mark'd a tear,

As sudden from my sight she fled.

Thus glanc'd away th' dear unknown,
Nor durst I stop the timid fair;
Love, I'm the vassal of thy throne,
By turns I hope, by turns despair.

Literary Magazine.


LIB I. ODE 19.

THE cruel queen of fierce desires,

While youth and wine assistants prove,

Renews my long neglected fires,

And melts again my mind to love.

On blooming Glycera I gaze,

By too resistless force opprest!
With fond delight my eye surveys
The spotless whiteness of her breast.

In vain I strive to break my chain;
In vain I heave with anxious sighs:
Her pleasing coyness feeds my pain,
And keeps the conquest of her eyes.

Impetuous tides of joy and pain,
By turns my lab'ring bosom tear;
of love, with all her train
Of hopes and fears, inhabits there.



No more the wand'ring Scythian's might,
From softer themes my lyre shall move;
No more the Parthian's wily flight:
My lyre shall sing of nought but love.

Haste, grassy altars let us rear;

Haste, wreaths of fragrant myrtle twine; With Arab sweets perfume the air,

And crown the whole with gen'rous wine.

While we the sacred rites prepare,
The cruel queen of fierce desires
Will wound, propitious to my prayer,
Th' obdurate maid with equal fires.

Rev. J. Wesley.


How happy is he, born or taught,

That serveth not another's will! Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill:

Whose passions not his master's are; Whose soul is still prepar'd for death; Unty'd unto the world with care

Of public fame or private breath:

Who envies none that chance doth raise, Nor vice: who never understood

How deepest wounds are giv'n by praise, Nor rules of state, but rules of good.

Who hath his life from rumours freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatt'rers feed, Nor ruin make oppressor's great:

Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend;

And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, tho' not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

Sir Henry Wotton.



WHILST in this cold and blust'ring clime, Where bleak winds howl and tempests roar, We pass away the roughest time,

Has been of many years before:

Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks,
The chillest blasts our peace invade,
And by great rains our smallest brooks
Are almost navigable made:

Whilst all the ills are so improv'd

Of this dead quarter of the year,

That ev'n you, so much belov'd,

We would not now wish with us here.

In this estate, I say, it is

Some comfort to us to suppose,

That in a better clime than this

You, our dear friend, have more repose.

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