Thus mourn'd the maid, in whose believing heart
Delusion play'd, and Cupid fix'd his dart;
Whilst MILO led the busy dance around,
And smil❜d on others, spite of LAURA's wound.
ON A VERY AMIABLE LADY,
Who had every Requisite to make Life happy, but was not handsome-being a Contrast to a MODERN COQUET, who possessed some Beauty, but was otherwise miserably defective.
SHALL I-whom fortune never yet compell'd
To change one tenet that my feelings held―
With fops and fools adore each thoughtless air,
Because CHLORINDA'S number'd with the fair?
Shall I because mad Fashion, flatt'ring elf!
The folly feeds, turn flatterer myself;
And, foe to virtue, prostitute my lays,
Whilst Reason blushes at the venal praise?
Stiff in brocade, and loose in Cyprian trim,
As fashion guides, or inclination's whim,
Along the Mall see ROSALINDA strut,
With all her equipage a perfect slut!
What if she lead, of half-bred fops, a crowd,
That laugh and prate impertinently loud;
What if the simp'ring clergyman be there,
A holy coxcomb with a dubious air!
Wit on his tongue, and passion in his eye,
Though all that wit's a pun, and lust his sigh!
What if the smooth-tongu'd student of the Bar,
The blust'ring soldier, or the frantic tar,
The gather'd poison of seduction's spring
In various guises to their object bring;
Shall I a traitor to the sex I love-
Within the circle of their falsehood move?
Or, dead to nature in her simple charms,
In foolish maduess barter for alarms?
Let the fairest object of desire,
A form of elegance, an eye of fire ;
Lips-that would draw the Cynic from his cell,
And on their crimson bid his wishes dwell:
Cheeks-that would shame whate'er the garden blows,
The milk white lily, and the blushing rose;
A neck-where apathy, to frenzy wrought,
Might curse philosophy's unmeaning thought;
Where cloister'd sorrow would to rapture rise,
And keep from Heav'n his penitence and sighs;
A voice-whose echo to the list ning ear
Of tuneful Philomel the winds might bear:
Let charms like these-and all these charms are thine, Ador'd BELINDA!—in their zenith shine;
Still-should the glare of vanity delude
The dazzled heart, and make it spurn the good;
Prefer a coxcomb, to the youth whose breast
With sterling sense and honour is imprest:
Should conscious beauty teach it to be vain,
To scorn a lover, yet indulge his pain;
Heedless to roll the magic of her
Enjoy no passion, yet affect its sigh;
Untouch'd the gilded folly would I see,
And turn, my fair, to innocence and thee.
Nurs'd in the lap of elegance and ease,
And blest with temper which must always please,
Above your sex's vanity you move,
And, tho' no beauty, charm us into love.
But what's a face, a feature, or an eye?
Uncertain objects of a transient sigh.
Compare the laurel with the beauteous rose;
That humbly green, whilst this in crimson glows:
At first, deluded by the fragrant pow'r,
We quit the lasting for the fading flow'r;
Admire its leaves, nor think, the season past,
That all those dazzling leaves must fade at last.
But when the genial zephyrs disappear,
And chilling tempests waste the blooming year,
The beauteous rose shall yield its gaudy vest,
No longer cherish'd, and no more carest;
While, spite of time, the laurel's nobler bough
Unalter'd lives, and shades the poet's brow.
So shall the thoughtless nymph, whose giddy brain
Is warp'd to vanity's illusive train ;
Whose smiles are foreign to the soul that feels
Affection's rapture, and its bliss reveals;
Awhile be gaz'd at, flatter'd and admir'd,
Till Venus leaves her, and the fops are tir❜d:
By virtue pitied in her brightest hour!
A gilded trifle, and a barren flow'r!
G 6
But you,-whom sense and reason's steady beam
Turn from delusion's momentary dream,—
Who to the safer compass of the breast
Look for repose, and more than fleeting rest
Through life's short space with spotless fame shall tread, Esteem'd while living, and deplor❜d when dead.
FLOW, gentle Colne! and, as thou flow'st, repeat
A name whose echo's sweetest of the sweet;
And should thy murmurs to my heart reply,
Waft on each wave a more than common sigh.
If babbling gales the beauteous object tell,
Still on thy surface let her image dwell:
For here she gaz'd, and here my bosom caught
The soul's infection, and the lover's thought.
O'er no rough pebbles may thy waters roll,
For soft as zephyr is my charmer's soul;
Pure as the purest crystal of thy tide,
Unstain'd by folly, prejudice, or pride.
Written with a Pencil on a Lady's Picture.
1778.
THAT Delia was, this little sketch may tell,
What Delia was, it never can explain;
For in her heart so many virtues dwell,
That painters paint, and poets sing in vain.
Pleas'd Nature smil'd, and with her pencil drew
At once a woman, and an angel too;
From VENUS pilfer'd all that love can give,
And bade the Graces in her features live;
While PALLAS, careful of her dearest prize,
Bids Sense direct the magic of her eyes.
ON ACTING A LOVER'S PART, AT SCHOOL,
OH, whilst I feign the lover's tender part,
And make a mournful mimic of my heart;
In ev'ry look his restless anguish shew,
Alternate pleasure, and alternate woe;
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