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HER GRIEF AT PARTING. 253
Hard is that heart and unsubdued by love
Such hearts the fiercest passions only prove,
Oh! then indulge thy grief, nor fear to tell
Nor think it weakness when we love to feel,
Hope, like the short-lived ray that gleams awhile
Cheers e'en the face of misery to a smile;
How oft, my Delia, since our last farewell,
Grieved I have said, when most our hopes prevail,
Oft I have thought the scene of troubles closed,
As oft some dire mischance has interposed,
And snatched the expected blessing from my arms.
The seaman thus, his shattered vessel lost,
Still vainly strives to shun the threatening death;
And while he thinks to gain the friendly coast,
Borne by the wave steep-sloping from the shore,
The surge aside, and seems to tread secure;
Had you, my love, forbade me to pursue
And with proud scorn compelled me to subdue
Then haply to some distant spot removed,
With fond entreaties whom I dearly loved,
But now, sole partner in my Delia's heart,
Eternal absence cannot ease my smart,
And hope subsists but to prolong my pain.
Oh, then, kind Heaven, be this my latest breath!
Here end my life, or make it worth my care;
And frustrate hope severer than dismay.
R S. S
All-worshipped Gold! thou mighty mystery
Say by what name shall I address thee rather,
Our blessing, or our bane? Without thy aid,
The generous pangs of pity but distress
The human heart, that fain would feel the bliss
Of blessing others; and, enslaved by thee,
Far from relieving woes which others feel,
Misers oppress themselves. Our blessing then
With virtue when possessed ; without, our bane.
If in my bosom unperceived there lurk
The deep-sown seeds of avarice or ambition,
Blame me, ye great ones, (for I scorn your censure),
But let the generous and the good commend me;
That to my Delia I direct them all,
The worthiest object of a virtuous love.
Oh ! to some distant scene, a willing exile
From the wild uproar of this busy world,
Were it my fate with Delia to retire;
With her to wander through the sylvan shade,
Each morn, or o'er the moss-embrowned turf,
Where, blessed as the prime parents of mankind
In their own Eden, we would envy none;
But, greatly pitying whom the world calls happy,
Gently spin out the silken thread of life;
While from her lips attentive I receive
The tenderest dictates of the purest flame,
And from her eyes (where soft complacence sits
Illumined with the radiant beams of sense),
Tranquillity beyond a monarch's reach.
Forgive me, Heaven, this only avarice
My soul indulges; 1 confess the crime,
(If to esteem, to covet such perfection
Be criminal), oh, grant me Delia! grant me wealth!
Wealth to alleviate, not increase my wants;
And grant me virtue, without which nor wealth
Nor Delia can avail to make me blessed.
WRITTEN IN A FIT OF ILLNESS.
Tv these sad hours, a prey to ceaseless pain,
Thy form appears, thy footsteps I pursue,
Through springy vales, and meadows washed in dew;
Thy arm supports me to the fountain's brink,
Where by some secret power forbid to drink,
Gasping with thirst, I view the tempting flood
That flies my touch, or thickens into mud;
Till thine own hand immerged the goblet dips,
And bears it streaming to my burning lips.
There borne aloft on fancy's wing we fly,
Like souls embodied to their native sky;
Now every rock, each mountain, disappears;
And the round earth an even surface wears;
When lo! the force of some resistless weight,
Bears me straight down from that pernicious height;
Parting, in vain our struggling arms we close;
Abhorred forms, dire phantoms interpose;
With trembling voice on thy loved name I call;
And gulfs yawn ready to receive my fall.
From these fallacious visions of distress
I wake; nor are my real sorrows less.
Thy absence, Delia, heightens every ill,
And gives e'en trivial pains the power to kill.
Oh! wert thou near me ; yet that wish forbear!
'Twere vain, my love,—'twere vain to wish thee near;
Thy tender heart would heave with anguish too,
And by partaking, but increase my woe.
Alone I'll grieve, till gloomy sorrow past,
Health, like the cheerful day-spring, comes at last,—
Comes fraught with bliss to banish every pain,
Hope, joy, and peace, and Delia in her train!
Me to whatever state the gods assign,
No -weai.il can purchase, and no power reclaim.
Is there whose faithful bosom ran endure
And thou, dear antidote of every pain Which fortune can mflict, or love ordam, Since early love has taught thee to despise What the world's worthless votaries only prize, Believe, my love ! no less the generous god Rules in my breast, his ever blest abode; There has he driven each gross desire away. Directmg every wi?h and every thought to thee! Then can I ever leave my Delia's arms, A slave, devoied to inferior charms? Can e'er my soul her reason so disgrace? For what blest minister of heavenly race Would quit that heaven to find a happier place?
SVTPOSED TO BE irRITTEX ON THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEKD
Tuou magic lyre, whose fascinating sound
Seduced the savage monsters from their cave, Drew rocks and trees, and forms uncouth around,
And bade wild Hebrus hush his listening wave; No more thy undulating warblings flow O'er Thracian wilds of everlasting snow! Awake to sweeter sounds, thou magic lyre,
And paint a lover's biiss—a lover's pain! Far nobler triumphs now thy notes inspire,
For see, Eurydice attends thy strain; Her smile, a prize beyond the conjuror's aim, Superior to the cancelled breath of fame. From her sweet brow to chase the gloom of care,
To check the tear that dims the beaming eye, To bid her heart the rismg sigh forbear,
And Rush her orient cheek with brighter joy,
Ah me ! how long bewildered and astray,
Till sent by heaven to cheer my pathless ray,
The God propitious joined our willing hands,
And Hymen wreathed us in his rosy bands.
Yet not the beaming eye, or placid brow,
To charms superior far than those I bow,
The beauty, elegance, and grace combined,
Which beam transcendent from that angel mind.
While vulgar passions, meteors of a day,
Our holy flame with pure and steady ray,
By virtue (sacred vestal) fed, shall shine,
And warm our fainting souls with energy divine.
THE FIFTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.
PRINTED IN DUNCOMBE'S HORACE.
K HUMOROUS DESCRIPTION OF THE AUTHOR'S JOURNEY
FROM ROME TO BRUNDUSIUM.
'twas a long journey lay before us,
First at Aricia we alight,