With secret dread she views the sun descend,
And Twilight o'er the earth her veil extend;
For now the swift pursuer nearer drew,
And almost touch'd her garments as she flew ;
Wheel'd as she wheel'd, on every footstep gain'd,
And no relief nor glimpse of hope remain❜d.
Fast by a stream an ancient altar stood,
And close behind it rose a wavy wood,
Whose twining boughs exclude the parting.
light,
And dusky shades anticipate the night.
Thither, collecting all her force, she flies,
And, 'Oh! whatever god,' the damsel cries,
'Protects this altar, may that generous power
Hear and relieve me in this dangerous hour;
Give me at least to save my spotless fame,
And still in death preserve a virgin's name.'
While thus to unknown powers Cephisa pray'd,
Victorious Pan o'ertook the fainting maid:
Around her waist his eager arms he throws,
With love and joy his throbbing bosom glows;
When, wonderful to tell, her form receives
A verdant covering of expanded leaves;
Then shooting downward trembling to the ground,
A fibrous root her slender ankles bound.
Strange to herself, as yet, aghast she stands,
And to high heaven she rears her spotless hands ;
These, while she spreads them, still in spires ex-
Till in small leaves her taper fingers end:
Her voice she tries, but utterance is denied,
The smother'd sounds in hollow murmurs died.
At length, quite chang'd, the god with wonder
viewed,
A beauteous plant arising where she stood;
This from his touch, with human sense inspir'd,
Indignant shrinking, of itself retir'd:
Yet Pan attends it with a lover's cares,
And fostering aid with tender hand prepares;
The new-form'd plant reluctant seems to yield,
And lives, the grace and glory of the field.
But still, as mindful of her former state,
The nymph's perfections on her change await,
And though transform'd, her virtue still remains,
No touch impure her sacred plant sustains,
From whence the name of Sensitive it gains.
This oft the nymphs approach with secret dread,
While crimson blushes o'er their cheeks are
spread;
Yet the true virgin has no cause for fear,
The test is equal if the maid's sincere.
This in thy walks, O, is found,
Thy walks, for virgins fair and chaste renown'd:
This from the mild Hesperian clime convey'd,
Shall ever bloom, O W! in thy shade
Yet western nymphs thy wondrous tree avoid,
Lest all their hopes be by a touch destroy'd.
Britannia's daughters no such terrors know ;
With no lewd flames their spotless bosoms
glow:
Though every shrub our cultur'd gardens boast,
And all of foreign stock, a countless host,
Should all at once the precious gift receive,
And every plant become a Sensitive,
Yet should their fame the dreadful trial stand,
And add new honours to their native land;
Honours their latest progeny shall share,
For ever virtuous, as for ever fair.
DESIGNED FOR THE PASTORAL TRAGEDY OF
THERE was a time (O were those days renew'd!)
Ere tyrant laws had woman's will subdued;
Then Nature rul'd, and Love, devoid of art,.
Spoke the consenting language of the heart.
Love uncontroll'd; instpid, poor delight!
"Tis the restraint that whets our appetite.
Behold the beasts who range the forests free,
Behold the birds who fly from tree to tree;
In their amours see Nature's power appear!
And do they love? Yes-One month in the year.
Were these the pleasures of the Golden reign?
And did free Nature thus instruct the swain?
I envy not, ye nymphs! your amorous bowers,
Such harmless swains! I'm even content with ours.
But yet there's something in these sylvan scenes That tells our fancy what the lover means; Name but the mossy bank and moonlight grove, Is there a heart that does not beat with love.
To-night we treat you with such country fare, Then for your lovers' sake our author spare. He draws no Hemskirk boors or homebred clowns,
But the soft shepherds of Arcadia's downs.
When Paris on the three his judgment past I hope you'll own the shepherd show'd his taste : And Jove, all know, was a good judge of beauty, Who made the nymph Calisto break her duty: Then was the country nymph no awkward thing. See what strange revolutions time can bring!
Yet still, methinks, our author's fate I dread; Were it not safer beaten paths to tread Of Tragedy, than o'er wild heaths to stray, And, seeking strange adventures, lose his way? No trumpets' clangor makes his heroine start, And tears the soldier from her bleeding heart; He, foolish bard! nor pomp nor show regards; Without the witness of a hundred guards His lovers sigh their vows-If sleep should
He has no battle, no loud drum, to wake ye. What, no such shifts? there's danger in 't, 'tis true; Yet spare him, as he gives you something new.
LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH
SOON as Glumdalclitch miss'd her pleasing care,
She wept, she blubber'd, and she tore her hair.
No British miss sincerer grief has known,
Her squirrel missing, or her sparrow flown.
She furl'd her sampler, and haul'd in her thread,
And stuck her needle into Grildrig's bed;
Then spread her hands, and with a bounce let fall
Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall.
In peals of thunder now she roars, and now
She gently whimpers like a lowing cow :
Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears,
Her locks dishevell'd, and her flood of tears
Seem like the lofty barn of some rich swain,
When from the thatch drips fast a shower of rain.
In vain she search'd each cranny of the house,
Each gaping chink impervious to a mouse.
Was it for this, (she cried,) with daily care
Within thy reach I set the vinegar,
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