A MISCELLANY OF POEMS.

Long have our Priests condemn'd a wicked Age, } And every little criticks sensless rage } Damn'd a forsaken self-declining stage: } Great 'tis confest and many are our crimes, And no less profligate the vitious times, But yet no wonder both prevail so ill, The Poets fury and the Preachers skill; While to the World it is so plainly known They blame our faults with great ones of their own, Let their dull Pens flow with unlearned spight And weakly censure what the skilful write; You, learned Sir, a nobler passion shew, Our best of rules and best example too. Precepts and grave instructions dully move, The brave Performer better do's improve, Ver'st in the truest Satyr you excel And shew how ill we write by writing well. This noble Piece which well deserves your name I read with pleasure thô I read with shame. The tender Laurels which my brows had drest Flag, like young Flowers, with too much heat opprest. The generous fire I felt in every line Shew'd me the cold, the feeble, force of mine. Henceforth I'le you for imitation chuse Your nobler flights will wing my Callow Muse; So the young Eagle is inform'd to fly } By seeing the Monarch Bird ascend the sky. } And thô with less success her strength she'l try, } Spreads her soft plumes and his vast tracks persues Thô far above the towring Prince she views: High as she can she'll bear your deathless fame, And make my song Immortal by your name. But where the work is so Divinely wrought, The rules so just and so sublime each thought, When with so strict an Art your scenes are plac'd With wit so new, and so uncommon, grac'd, In vain, alas! I should'st attempt to tell Where, or in what, your Muse do's most excel. Each character performs its noble part, And stamps its Image on the Readers heart. In Tamerlan you a true Hero drest, A generous conflict wars within his breast, This there the mightyest passions you have shew'd By turns confest the Mortal and the God. When e're his steps approach the haughty fair He bows indeed but like a Conqueror, Compell'd to Love yet scorns his servial chain, In spight of all you make the Monarch reign. But who without resistless tears can see The bright, the innocent, Irene die? Axalla's life a noble ransom paid, In vain to save the much-lov'd charming maid, Nought surely cou'd but your own flame inspire Your happy Muse to reach so soft a fire. Yet with what Art you turn the pow'rful stream When trecherous Ragallzan is the theam: You mix our different passions with such skill, We feel 'em all and all with pleasure feel. We love the mischief, thô the harms we grieve, And for his wit the villain we forgive. In your Despina all those passions meet, Which womans frailties perfectly compleat. Pride and Revenge, Ambition, Love and Rage, At once her wilful haughty Soul engage; And while her rigid Honour we esteem, The dire effects as justly must condemn. She shews a virtue so severely nice As has betray'd it to a pitch of vice. All which confess a God-like pow'r in you Who cou'd form woman to herself so true. Live, mighty Sir, to reconcile the Age To the first glories of the useful Stage. 'Tis you her rifl'd Empire may restore And give her power she ne're cou'd boast before.

Oh, Damon, if thou ever wert That certain friend thou hast profest, Relieve the Pantings of my heart, Restore me to my wonted rest. Late in the Silvian Grove I sat, Free as the Air, and calm as that; For as no winds the boughs opprest, No storms of Love were in my breast. A long Adieu I'd bid to that Ere since Amintas prov'd ingrate. And with indifference, or disdain, I lookt around upon the Plain And worth my favor found no sighing Swain. But oh, my Damon, all in vain I triumph'd in security, In vain absented from the Plain. The wanton God his power to try In lone recesses makes us yeild, As well as in the open feild; For where no human thing was found My heedless heart receiv'd a wound. Assist me, Shepherd, or I dye, Help to unfold this Mystery. No Swain was by, no flattering Nymph was neer, Soft tales of Love to whisper in my Ear. In sleep, no Dream my fancy fir'd With Images, my waking wish desir'd. No fond Idea fill'd my mind; Nor to the faithless sex one thought inclin'd; I sigh'd for no deceiving youth, Who forfeited his vows and truth; I waited no Assigning Swain Whose disappointment gave me pain. My fancy did no prospect take Of Conquest's I design'd to make. No snares for Lovers I had laid, Nor was of any snare afraid. But calm and innocent I sate, } Content with my indifferent fate. } (A Medium, I confess, I hate.) } For when the mind so cool is grown } As neither Love nor Hate to own, } The Life but dully lingers on. } Thus in the mid'st of careless thought, A paper to my hand was brought. What hidden charms were lodg'd within, To my unwary Eyes unseen, Alas! no Human thought can guess; But ho! it robb'd me of my peace. A Philter 'twas, that darted pain Thrô every pleas'd and trembling vein. A stratagem, to send a Dart By a new way into the heart, Th' Ignoble Policie of Love By a clandestin means to move. Which possibly the Instrument } Did ne're design to that intent, } But only form, and complement. } While Love did the occasion take And hid beneath his flowres a snake, O're every line did Poyson fling, In every word he lurk't a sting. So Matrons are, by Demons charms, Thô harmless, capable of harms. The verse was smooth, the thought was fine, The fancy new, the wit divine. But fill'd with praises of my face and Eyes, My verse, and all those usual flatteries To me as common as the Air; Nor cou'd my vanity procure my care. All which as things of course are writ And less to shew esteem than wit. But here was some strange somthing more Than ever flatter'd me before; My heart was by my Eyes misled: I blusht and trembl'd as I read. And every guilty look confest I was with new surprise opprest. From every view I felt a pain And by the Soul, I drew the Swain. Charming as fancy cou'd create Fine as his Poem, and as soft as that. I drew him all the heart cou'd move, I drew him all that women Love. And such a dear Idea made As has my whole repose betray'd. Pigmalion thus his Image form'd, And for the charms he made, he sigh'd and burn'd. Oh thou that know'st each Shepherds Strains } That Pipes and Sings upon the Plains; } Inform me where the youth remains. } The spightful Paper bare no name, Nor can I guess from whom it came, Or if at least a guess I found, 'Twas not t'instruct but to confound.

Ah hapless sex! who bear no charms, But what like lightning flash and are no more, False fires sent down for baneful harms, Fires which the fleeting Lover feebly warms And given like past Beboches o're, Like Songs that please (thô bad,) when new, But learn'd by heart neglected grew. In vain did Heav'n adorn the shape and face With Beautyes which by Angels forms it drew: In vain the mind with brighter Glories Grace, While all our joys are stinted to the space Of one betraying enterview, With one surrender to the eager will We're short-liv'd nothing, or a real ill. Since Man with that inconstancy was born, To love the absent, and the present scorn, Why do we deck, why do we dress For such a short-liv'd happiness? Why do we put Attraction on, Since either way 'tis we must be undon? They fly if Honour take our part, Our Virtue drives 'em o're the field. We lose 'em by too much desert, And Oh! they fly us if we yeild, Ye Gods! is there no charm in all the fair To fix this wild, this faithless, wanderer? Man! our great business and our aim, For whom we spread our fruitless snares, No sooner kindles the designing flame, But to the next bright object bears The Trophies of his conquest and our shame: Inconstancy's the good supream The rest is airy Notion, empty Dream! Then, heedless Nymph, be rul'd by me If e're your Swain the bliss desire; Think like Alexis he may be Whose wisht Possession damps his fire; The roving youth in every shade Has left some sighing and abandon'd Maid, For 'tis a fatal lesson he has learn'd, After fruition ne're to be concern'd.

Alexis, since you'll have it so I grant I am impertinent. And till this moment did not know Thrô all my life what 'twas I ment; Your kind opinion was th' unflattering Glass, In which my mind found how deform'd it was. In your clear sense which knows no art, I saw the error of my Soul; And all the feebless of my heart, With one reflection you controul, Kind as a God, and gently you chastise, By what you hate, you teach me to be wise. Impertinence, my sexes shame, (Which has so long my life persu'd,) You with such modesty reclaim As all the Woman has subdu'd, To so divine a power what must I owe, That renders me so like the perfect—you? That conversable thing I hate Already with a just disdain, Who Prid's himself upon his prate And is of word, (that Nonsense,) vain; When in your few appears such excellence, They have reproacht, and charm'd me into sense. For ever may I listning sit, Thô but each hour a word be born: I wou'd attend the coming wit, And bless what can so well inform: Let the dull World henceforth to words be damn'd, I'm into nobler sense than talking sham'd.

Whither, young Damon, whither in such hast, Swift as the Winds you sweep the Grove, The Amorous God of Day scarce hy'd so fast After his flying Love?

Aminta, view my Face, and thence survey My very Soul and all its mighty joy! A joy too great to be conceal'd, And without speaking is reveal'd; For this eternal Holyday. A Day to place i'th' Shepherds Kalendar, To stand the glory of the circling year. Let its blest date on every Bark be set, And every Echo its dear name repeat. Let 'em tell all the neighbouring Woods and Plains, That Lysidus, the Beauty of the Swains, Our darling youth, our wonder and our Pride, Is blest with fair Clemena for a Bride. Oh happy Pair! Let all the Groves rejoyce, And gladness fill each heart and every voyce!

Clemena! that bright maid for whom our Shepherds pine, For whom so many weeping Eyes decline! For whom the Echos all complain, For whom with sigh and falling tears The Lover in his soft despairs Disturbs the Peaceful Rivers gliding stream? The bright Clemena who has been so long The destinie of hearts and yet so young, She that has robb'd so many of content Yet is herself so Sweet, so Innocent. She, that as many hearts invades, As charming Lysidus has conquer'd maids, Oh tell me, Damon, is the lovely fair Become the dear reward of all the Shepherds care? Has Lysidus that prize of Glory won For whom so many sighing Swains must be undon?

Yes, it was destin'd from Eternity, They only shou'd each other's be, Hail, lovely pair, whom every God design'd In your first great Creation shou'd be joyn'd.

Oh, Damon, this is vain Philosophie, 'Tis chance and not Divinity, That guides Loves Partial Darts; And we in vain the Boy implore To make them Love whom we Adore. And all the other powers take little care of hearts, The very Soule's by intr'est sway'd, And nobler passion now by fortune is betray'd; By sad experience this I know, And sigh, Alas! in vain because tis true.

Too often and too fatally we find Portion and Joynture charm the mind, Large Flocks and Herds, and spacious Plains Becoms the merit of the Swains. But here, thô both did equally abound, 'Twas youth, 'twas wit, 'twas Beauty gave the equal wound; Their Soules were one before they mortal being found. Jove when he layd his awful Thunder by And all his softest Attributes put on, When Heav'n was Gay, and the vast Glittering Sky With Deities all wondering and attentive shone, The God his Luckyest heat to try Form'd their great Soules of one Immortal Ray, He thought, and form'd, as first he did the World, But with this difference, That from Chaos came, These from a beam, which, from his God-head hurl'd Kindl'd into an everlasting flame. He smiling saw the mighty work was good, While all the lesser Gods around him gazing stood. He saw the shining Model bright and Great But oh! they were not yet compleat, For not one God but did the flames inspire, With sparks of their Divinest fire. Diana took the lovely Female Soul, And did its fiercer Atoms cool; Softn'd the flame and plac'd a Chrystal Ice About the sacred Paradise, Bath'd it all or'e in Virgin Tears, Mixt with the fragrant Dew the Rose receives, Into the bosom of her untoucht leaves, And dry'd it with the breath of Vestal Prayers, } Juno did great Majestick thought inspire } And Pallas toucht it with Heroick fire. } While Mars, Apollo, Love and Venus sate, About the Hero's Soul in high debate, Each claims it all, but all in vain contend, In vain appeal to mighty Jove, Who equal Portions did to all extend. This to the God of wit, and that to Love, Another to the Queen of soft desire, And the fierce God of War compleats the rest, Guilds it all or'e with Martial fire; While Love, and Wit, Beauty and War exprest Their finest Arts, and the bright Beings all in Glory drest. While each in their Divine imployments strove } By every charm these new-form'd lights t'improve, } They left a space untoucht for mightyer Love. } The finishing last strokes the Boy perform'd; Who from his Quiver took a Golden Dart That cou'd a sympathizing wound impart, And toucht 'em both, and with one flame they burn'd. The next great work was to create two frames Of the Divinest form, Fit to contain these heavenly flames. The Gods decreed, and charming Lysidus was born, Born, and grew up the wonder of the Plains, } Joy of the Nymphs and Glory of the Swains. } And warm'd all hearts with his inchanting strains; } Soft were the Songs, which from his lips did flow, Soft as the Soul which the fine thought conceiv'd. Soft as the sighs the charming Virgin breath'd The first dear night of the chast nuptial vow. The noble youth even Daphnis do's excel, Oh never Shepherd pip'd and sung so well.

Now, Damon, you are in your proper sphear, While of his wit you give a character. But who inspir'd you a Philosopher?

Old Colin, when we oft have led our Flocks Beneath the shelter of the shad's and Rocks, While other youths more vainly spent their time, I listen'd to the wonderous Bard; And while he sung of things sublime With reverend pleasure heard. He soar'd to the Divine abodes And told the secrets of the Gods. And oft discours'd of Love and Sympathy; For he as well as thou and I Had sigh't for some dear object of desire; But oh! till now I ne're cou'd prove That secret mystery of Love; Ne're saw two hearts thus burn with equal fire.

But, oh! what Nymph e're saw the noble youth That was not to eternal Love betray'd?

And, oh! what swain e're saw the Lovely maid, That wou'd not plight her his eternal faith! Not unblown Roses, or the new-born day Or pointed Sun-beams, when they gild the skys, Are half so sweet, are half so bright and gay, As young Clemena's charming Face and Eyes!

Not full-blown flowrs, when all their luster's on Whom every bosom longs to wear, Nor the spread Glories of the mid-days sun Can with the charming Lysidus compare.

Not the soft gales of gentle breez That whisper to the yeilding Trees, Nor songs of Birds that thrô the Groves rejoyce, Are half so sweet, so soft, as young Clemena's voyce.

Not murmurs of the Rivulets and Springs, When thrô the glades they purling glide along And listen when the wondrous shepherd sings, Are half so sweet as is the Shepherds song.

Not young Diana in her eager chase When by her careless flying Robe betray'd, Discovering every charm and every Grace, Has more surprising Beauty than the brighter maid.

The gay young Monarch of the cheerful May Adorn'd with all the Trophies he has won, Vain with the Homage of the joyful day Compar'd to Lysidus wou'd be undone.

Aminta, cease; and let me hast away, For while upon this Theam you dwell, You speak the noble youth so just, so well, I cou'd for ever listning stay.

And while Clemena's praise becoms thy choyce, My Ravisht soul is fixt upon thy voyce.

But see the Nymphs and dancing swains Ascend the Hill from yonder Plains, With Wreathes and Garlands finely made, To crown the lovely Bride and Bridegrooms head, And I amongst the humbler throng My Sacrifice must bring A rural Hymeneal Song, Alexis he shall pipe while I will sing. Had I been blest with Flocks or Herd A nobler Tribute I'd prepar'd, With darling Lambs the Altars I wou'd throng; But I, alas! can only offer song. Song too obscure, too humble verse For this days glory to reherse, But Lysidus, like Heav'n, is kind, And for the Sacrifice accepts the Humble mind. If he vouchsafe to listen to my Ode He makes me happyer than a fancy'd God.

What Art thou, oh! thou new-found pain? From what infection dost thou spring? Tell me.—oh! tell me, thou inchanting thing, Thy nature, and thy name; Inform me by what subtil Art, What powerful Influence, You got such vast Dominion in a part Of my unheeded, and unguarded, heart, That fame and Honour cannot drive yee thence. Oh! mischievous usurper of my Peace; Oh! soft intruder on my solitude, Charming disturber of my ease, Thou hast my nobler fate persu'd, And all the Glorys of my life subdu'd. Thou haunt'st my inconvenient hours; The business of the Day, nor silence of the night, That shou'd to cares and sleep invite, Can bid defyance to thy conquering powers. Where hast thou been this live-long Age That from my Birth till now, Thou never could'st one thought engage, Or charm my soul with the uneasy rage That made it all its humble feebles know? Where wert thou, oh, malicious spright, When shining Honour did invite? When interest call'd, then thou wert shy, Nor to my aid one kind propension brought, Nor wou'd'st inspire one tender thought, When Princes, at my feet did lye. When thou cou'd'st mix ambition with thy joy, Then peevish Phantôm thou wer't nice and coy, Not Beauty cou'd invite thee then Nor all the Arts of lavish Men; Not all the powerful Rhetorick of the Tongue Not sacred Wit you'd charm thee on; Not the soft play that lovers make, Nor sigh cou'd fan thee to a fire, Not pleading tears, nor vows cou'd thee awake, Or warm the unform'd somthing—to desire. Oft I've conjur'd thee to appear By youth, by love, by all their powrs, Have searcht and sought thee every where, In silent Groves, in lonely bowrs: On Flowry beds where lovers wishing lye, In sheltering woods where sighing maids To their assigning Shepherds hye, And hide their blushes in the gloom of shades: Yet there, even there, thô youth assail'd, Where Beauty prostrate lay and fortune woo'd, My heart insensible to neither bow'd, The lucky aid was wanting to prevail. In courts I sought thee then, thy proper sphear But thou in crowds wer't stifl'd there, Int'rest did all the loving business do, Invites the youths and wins the Virgins too. Or if by chance some heart thy empire own (Ah power ingrate!) the slave must be undone. Tell me, thou nimble fire, that dost dilate Thy mighty force thrô every part, What God, or Human power did thee create In my, till now, unfacil heart? Art thou some welcome plague sent from above In this dear form, this kind disguise? Or the false offspring of mistaken love, Begot by some soft thought that faintly strove, With the bright peircing Beautys of Lysanders Eyes? Yes, yes, tormenter, I have found thee now; And found to whom thou dost thy being owe, 'Tis thou the blushes dost impart, For thee this languishment I wear, 'Tis thou that tremblest in my heart When the dear Shepherd do's appear, I faint, I dye with pleasing pain, My words intruding sighing break When e're I touch the charming swain When e're I gaze, when e're I speak. Thy conscious fire is mingl'd with my love, As in the sanctifi'd abodes Misguided worshippers approve The mixing Idol with their Gods. In vain, alas! in vain I strive With errors, which my soul do please and vex, For superstition will survive, Purer Religion to perplex. Oh! tell me you, Philosophers, in love, That can its burning feaverish fits controul, By what strange Arts you cure the soul, And the fierce Calenture remove? Tell me, yee fair ones, that exchange desire, How tis you hid the kindling fire. Oh! wou'd you but confess the truth, It is not real virtue makes you nice: But when you do resist the pressing youth, 'Tis want of dear desire, to thaw the Virgin Ice. And while your young adorers lye All languishing and hopeless at your feet, Raising new Trophies to your chastity, Oh tell me, how you do remain discreet? How you suppress the rising sighs, And the soft yeilding soul that wishes in your Eyes? While to th'admiring crow'd you nice are found; Some dear, some secret, youth that gives the wound Informs you, all your virtu's but a cheat And Honour but a false disguise, Your modesty a necessary bait To gain the dull repute of being wise. Deceive the foolish World—deceive it on, And veil your passions in your pride; But now I've found your feebles by my own, From me the needful fraud you cannot hide. Thô tis a mighty power must move The soul to this degree of love, And thô with virtue I the World perplex, Lysander finds the weakness of my sex, So Helen while from Theseus arms she fled, To charming Paris yeilds her heart and Bed.

Had'st thou, Amintas; liv'd in that great age, When hardly Beauty was to nature known, What numbers to thy side might'st thou engage And conquer'd Kingdoms by thy looks alone? That age when valor they did Beauty name, When Men did justly our brave sex prefer, 'Cause they durst dye, and scorn the publick shame Of adding Glory to the conqueror. Had mighty Scipio had thy charming face, Great Sophonisbe had refus'd to dye, Her passion o're the sense of her disgrace Had gain'd the more obliging victory. Nor less wou'd Massanissa too have done But to such Eyes, as to his Sword wou'd bow, For neither sex can here thy fetters shun, Being all Scipio, and Amintas too. Had'st thou great Cæsar been, the greater Queen, Wou'd trembling have her mortal Asps lay'd by, In thee she had not only Cæsar seen, But all she did adore in Antony. Had daring Sextus had thy lovely shape, The fairest Woman living had not dy'd But blest the darkness that secur'd the Rape, Suffering her Pleasure to have debauch't her Pride. Nor had he stoln to Rome to have quencht his fire, If thee resistless in his Camp he'd seen, Thy Eyes had kept his virtue all intire, And Rome a happy monarchy had been. Had Pompey lookt like thee, thô he had prov'd The vanquisht, yet from Egypts faithless King He had receiv'd the vows of being belov'd, In stead of Orders for his murdering. But here, Amintas, thy misfortune lys, Nor brave nor good are in our age esteem'd, Content thee then with meaner victorys, Unless that Glorious age cou'd be redeem'd.

Make hast! make hast! my miserable soul, To some unknown and solitary Grove, Where nothing may thy Languishment controle Where thou maist never hear the name of Love. Where unconfin'd, and free, as whispering Air, Thou maist caress and welcome thy despair: Where no dissembl'd complisance may veil The griefes with which, my soul, thou art opprest, But dying, breath thyself out in a tale That may declare the cause of thy unrest: The toyles of Death 'twill render far more light And soon convey thee to the shades of night. Search then, my soul, some unfrequented place, Some place that nature meant her own repose: When she herself withdrew from human race, Displeas'd with wanton Lovers vows and oaths. Where Sol cou'd never dart a busy Ray, And where the softer winds ne're met to play. By the sad purling of some Rivulet O're which the bending Yew and Willow grow, That scarce the glimmerings of the day permit, To view the melancholy Banks below, Where dwells no noyse but what the murmurs make, When the unwilling stream the shade forsakes. There on a Bed of Moss and new-faln leaves, Which the Triumphant Trees once proudly bore, Thô now thrown off by every wind that breaths, Despis'd by what they did adorn before, And who, like useless me, regardless lye While springing beautys do the boughs supply. There lay thee down, my soul, and breath thy last, And calmly to the unknown regions fly; But e're thou dost thy stock of life exhaust, Let the ungrateful know, why tis you dye. Perhaps the gentle winds may chance to bear Thy dying accents to Amintas ear. Breath out thy Passion; tell him of his power And how thy flame was once by thee approv'd. How soon as wisht he was thy conqueror, No sooner spoke of Love, but was belov'd. His wonderous Eyes, what weak resistance found, While every charming word begat a wound? Here thou wilt grow impatient to be gone, And thrô my willing Eyes will silent pass, Into the stream that gently glides along, But stay thy hasty flight, (my Soul,) alas, A thought more cruel will thy flight secure, Thought, that can no admittance give to cure. Think, how the prostrate Infidel now lys, An humble suppliant at anothers feet, Think, while he begs for pity from her Eyes. He sacrifices thee without regreet. Think, how the faithless treated thee last night, And then, my tortur'd soul, assume thy flight.

Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee, Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth: And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth. This last will justifie my soft complaint, While that may serve to lessen my constraint; And without Blushes I the Youth persue, When so much beauteous Woman is in view. Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain } With thy deluding Form thou giv'st us pain, } While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain. } In pity to our Sex sure thou wer't sent, That we might Love, and yet be Innocent: For sure no Crime with thee we can commit; Or if we shou'd—thy Form excuses it. For who, that gathers fairest Flowers believes A Snake lies hid beneath the Fragrant Leaves. Thou beauteous Wonder of a different kind, Soft Cloris with the dear Alexis join'd; When e'r the Manly part of thee, wou'd plead Thou tempts us with the Image of the Maid, While we the noblest Passions do extend The Love to Hermes, Aphrodite the Friend.