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Amidst the wild and dreary dells,
The distant echo-giving bells,
The bending mountain's head ; Whilst Evening, moving thro' the sky, Over the object and the eye,
Her pitchy robes doth spread ;
There, gently moving thro' the vale,
Bending before the blust'ring gale,
Fell apparitions glide;
Whilst roaring rivers echo round,
The drear reverberating sound
Runs through the mountain side;
Then steal I softly to the grove,
And singing of the nymph I love,
Sigh out my sad complaint;
To paint the tortures of mind,
Where can the muses numbers find ?
Ah! numbers are too faint.
Ah! Hoyland, empress of my heart, When will thy breast admit the dart,
And own a mutual flame ?
When, wand'ring in the myrtle groves,
Shall mutual pleasures seal our loves,
Pleasures without a name?
Thou greatest beauty of the sex,
When will the little god perplex
The mansions of thy breast ?
When wilt thou own a flame as pure
As that seraphic souls endure,
And make thy Baker blest?
0! haste to give my passion ease,
And bid the perturbation cease
That harrows up my soul !
The joy such happiness to find,
Would make the functions of my mind
In peace and love to roll.
ACROSTIC ON MISS HOYLAND.
ENCHANTING is the mighty power of Love ;
Life stript of amorous joys would irksome prove :
E’en Heaven's great Thund'rer wore th' easy chain,
And over all the world, Love keeps his reign.
No human heart can bear the piercing blade,
Or I than others, am more tender made.
Right thro' my heart a burning arrow drove,
Hoyland's bright eyes were made the bows of Love.
Oh! torture inexpressibly severe !
You are the pleasing author of my care.
Look down, fair angel, on a swain distrest,
A gracious smile from you would make me blest.
Nothing but that blest favour stills my grief-
Death, that denied, will quickly give relief.
Go, gentle Muse, and to my fair-one say,
My ardent passion mocks the feeble lay;
That love's pure flame my panting breast inspires,
And friendship warms me with her chaster fires.
Yes, more my fond esteem, my matchless love,
Than the soft turtle's cooing in the grove;
More than the lark delights to mount the sky,
Then sinking on the greensward soft to lie ;
More than the bird of eve, at close of day,
To pour in solemn solitude her lay;
More than grave Camplin* with his deep-toned note,
To mouth the sacred service got by rote;
More than sage Catcottt does his storm of rain,
Sprung from th' abyss of his eccentric brain,
Or than his wild-antique and sputt'ring brother
Loves in his ale-house chair to drink and pother ;
More than soft Lewis, * that sweet pretty thing,
Loves in the pulpit to display his ring;
More than frail mortals love a brother sinner,
And more than Bristol Aldermen their dinner,
(When full four pounds of the well-fatten'd haunch
In twenty mouthfuls fill the greedy paunch).
If these true strains can thy dear bosom move,
Let thy soft blushes speak a mutual love :
But if thy purpose settles in disdain,
Speak my dread fate, and bless thy fav'rite swain.
SERAPHIC virgins of the tuneful choir,
Assist me to prepare the sounding lyre !
Like her I sing, soft, sensible, and fair ;
Let the smooth numbers warble in the air.
Ye prudes, coquets, and all the misled throng,
Can Beauty, Virtue, Sense, demand the song ?
Look then on Clarke, and see them all unite;
A beauteous pattern, to the always-right.
Rest here, my muse, nor soar above thy sphere-
Kings might pay adoration to the fair,
Enchanting, full of joy, peerless in face and air.
• Mr. Lewis was a dissenting preacher of note, then in Bristol. Chatterton calls him, in one of his Letters, a “pulpit fop,”
Once more the Muse to beauteous Hoyland sings ;-
Her grateful tribute of harsh numbers brings
To Hoyland ! Nature's richest, sweetest store,
She made an Hoyland, and can make no more.
Nor all the beauties of the world's vast round
United, will as sweet as her be found.
Description sickens to rehearse her praise-
Her worth alone will deify my days. ·
Enchanting creature! Charms so great as thine
May all the beauties of the day outshine.
Thy eyes to every gazer send a dart,
Thy taking graces captivate the heart.
O for a muse that shall ascend the skies,
And like the subject of the Epode rise ;
To sing the sparkling eye, the portly grace,
The thousand beauties that adorn the face
Of my seraphic maid, whose beauteous charms
Might court the world to rush at once to arms;
Whilst the fair Goddess, native of the skies,
Shall sit above, and be the victor's prize.
O now, whilst yet I sound the tuneful lyre,
I feel the thrilling.joy her hands inspire ;
When the soft tender touch awakes my blood,
And rolls my passions with the purple flood.
My pulse beats high; my throbbing breast's on fire
In sad variety of wild desire.