EPISTLE VII. ΤΟ A LADY, SENT WITH A PRESENT OF SHELLS AND STONES DESIGNED FOR A GROTTO. By the Same. WITH gifts like these, the spoils of neighb'ring shores, The Indian swain his sable love adores, And such are yours, that nature's works admire With warmth like that, which they themselves in spire. To such how fair appears each grain of sand, Or humblest weed, as wrought by nature's hand! How far superior to all human pow'r Springs the green blade, or buds the painted flow'r! In all her births, though of the meanest kinds, A shell, or stone he can with pleasure view, Behold how bright these gaudy trifles shine, See with what art each curious shell is made, Yet still not half their charms can reach our eyes, Then glories yet unseen shall o'er them rise, New order from your hand, new lustre from your eyes. How sweet, how charming, will appear this Grot, When by your art to full perfection brought! Here verdant plants, and blooming flow'rs will grow, There bubbling currents through the shell-work flow; Here coral mix'd with shells of various dies, There polish'd stone will charm our wond'ring eyes; Delightful bow'r of bliss! secure retreat! Fit for the Muses, and STATIRA's seat. But still how good must be that fair-one's mind, Who thus in solitude can pleasure find! The Muse her company, good-sense her guide, And makes the warbling nightingale her choice, Blest is the man, whom heav'n shall grant one hour, With such a lovely nymph, in such a lovely bow'r. TO A LADY, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER WRITTEN IN A VERY FINE HAND. By the Same. WHILST well-wrote lines our wond'ring eyes command, The beauteous work of CHLOE's artful hand, See with what art the sable currents stain See, like some virgin, whose unmeaning charms The yielding paper's pure, but vacant breast, Let mighty Love no longer boast his darts, That strike unerring, aim'd at mortal hearts; CHLOE, your quill can equal wonders do, Wound full as sure, and at a distance too : Arm'd with your feather'd weapons in your hands, From pole to pole you send your great commands; To distant climes in vain the lover flies, Your pen o'ertakes him, if he 'scapes your eyes; So those, who from the sword in battle run, But perish victims to the distant gun. Beauty's a short-liv'd blaze, a fading flow'r, But these are charms no ages can devour; These, far superior to the brightest face, Triumph alike o'er time, as well as space, When that fair form, which thousands now adore, By years decay'd, shall tyrannize no more, These lovely lines shall future ages view, And eyes unborn, like ours, be charm'd by you. |