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O Hoyland ! heavenly goddess ! angel-saint !
Words are too weak thy mighty worth to paint ;
Thou best, completest work that nature made,
Thou art my substance, and I am thy shade.
Possessid of thee, I joyfully would go
Thro’ the loud tempest, and the depth of woe.
From thee alone my being I derive-
One beauteous smile from thee makes all my hopes
Since short the busy scene of life will prove,
Let us, my Hoyland, learn to live and love ;
To love with passions pure as morning light,
Whose saffron beams, unsullied by the night,
With rosy mantles do the heavens streak,
Faint imitators of my Hoyland's cheek.
The joys of Nature in her ruin'd state
Have little pleasure, tho' the pains are great :
Virtue and Love, when sacred bands unite,
'Tis then that Nature leads to true delight.
Oft as I wander thro' the myrtle grove,
Bearing the beauteous burden of my love,
A secret terror, lest I should offend
The charming maid on whom my joys depend,
Informs my soul, that virtuous minds alone
Can give a pleasure, to the vile unknown.
But when the body charming, and the mind,
To ev'ry virtuous christian act inclined,
Meet in one person, maid and angel join,
Who must it be, but Hoyland the divine ?
What worth intrinsic will that man possess,
Whom the dear charmer condescends to bless ?
Swift will the minutes roll, the flying hours,
And blessings overtake the pair by showers:
Each moment will improve upon the past,
And every day be better than the last.
Love means an unadulterated flame,
Tho’lust too oft usurps the sacred name;
Such passion as in Hoyland's breast can move,
'Tis that alone deserves the name of Love.
Oh, were my merit great enough to find
A favour'd station in my Hoyland's mind,
Then would my happiness be quite complete,
And all revolving joys as in a centre meet.
TO MISS HOYLAND.
Tell me, God of soft desires,
Little Cupid, wanton Boy,
How thou kindlest up thy fires,
Giving pleasing pain and joy?
Hoyland's beauty is thy bow,
Striking glances are thy darts :
Making conquests never slow,
Ever gaining conquer'd hearts.
Heaven is seated in her smile,
Juno's in her portly air ;
Not Britannia's fav'rite Isle
Can produce a nymph so fair.
In a desert vast and drear,
Where disorder springs around,
If the lovely fair is there,
'Tis a pleasure-giving ground.
Oh my Hoyland ! blest with thee,
I'd the raging storm defy,
In thy smiles I live, am free;
When thou frownest, I must die.
Accept, fair Nymph, this token of my love,
Nor look disdainful on the prostrate Swain : By ev'ry sacred oath, I'll constant prove,
And act as worthy for to wear your chain.
Not with more constant ardour shall the sun
Chase the faint shadows of the night away ; Nor shall he on his course more constant run,
And cheer the universe with coming day,
Than I in pleasing chains of conquest bound,
Adore the charming author of my smart ;For ever will I thy sweet charms resound,
And paint the fair possessor of my heart.
Count all the flow'rs that deck the meadow's side,
When Flora flourishes in new-born pride;
Count all the sparkling orbits in the sky;
Count all the birds that thro’ the æther fly;
Count all the foliage of the lofty trees,
That fly before the bleak autumnal breeze ;
Count all the dewy blades of verdant grass ;
Count all the drops of rain that softly pass
Thro' the blue æther, or empestuous roar :
Count all the sands upon the breaking shore ;
Count all the minutes since the world began;
Count all the troubles of the life of man;
Count all the torments of the d--d in hell,-
More are the beauteous charms that make my nymph
[I am by no means satisfied that all these poems are the production of Chatterton. They were published with his name in the Miscellanies, and at this distance of time it is impossible to distinguish between them. If they are his, they do him but little credit.-ED.)
To sing of Clarke my muse aspires,
A theme by charms made quite divine.
Ye tuneful Virgins sound your lyres,
Apollo aid the feeble line.
If truth and virtue, wit and charms,
May for a fix'd attention call,
The darts of Love and wounding arms
The beauteous Clarke shall hold o'er all.
'Tis not the tincture of the skin,
The rosy lip, the charming eye;
No, 'tis a greater power within,
That bids the passion never die.
These Clarke possesses, and much more-
All beauty in her glances sport;
She is the goddess all adore,
In country, city, and at court.