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With her mien she enamours the brave,

With her wit she engages the free, With her modesty pleases the grave;

She is ev'ry way pleasing to me.

O you that have been of her train,

Come and join in my amorous lays !
I could lay down my life for the swain

That will sing but a song in her praise. When he sings, may the nymphs of the town

Come trooping, and listen the while; Nay, on him let not Phillida frown

-But I cannot allow her to smile.

For when Paridel tries in the dance

Any favor with Phillis to find,
O how with one trivial glance

Might she ruin the peace of my mind !
In ringlets he dresses his hair,
And his crook is bestudded around

i And his pipe-O! my Phillis, beware

Of a magic there is in the sound !

*Tis his with mock passion to glow;

'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold "How her face is as bright as the snow,

. And her bosom, be sure, is as cold : • How the nightingales labor the strain,

• With the notes of his charmer to yie ; • How they vary their accents in vain,

• Repine at her triumphs, and die.' To the grove or the garden he strays,

And pillages every sweet,
Then suiting the wreath to his lays,

He throws it at Phillis's feet.
*O Phillis,' he whispers, ' more fair,

• More sweet than the jassamine's flow'r ! • What are pinks in a morn to compare ?

• What is eglantine after a show'r?

"Then the lily no longer is white,

. Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom, • Then the violets die with despite,

* And the woodbines give up their perfume.' Thus glide the soft numbers along,

And he fancies no shepherd his peer ; -Yet I never 'should envy the song,

Were not Phillis to lend it an ear.
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,

So Phillis the trophy despise;
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,

So they shine not in Phillis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart

Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue;
-Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.

Y shepherds, give ear to my lay,

And take no more heed of my sheep; They have nothing to do but to stray;

I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove ;

She was fair-and my passion begun; She smil'd-and I could not but love;

She is faithless-and I am undone. Perhaps I was void of all thought ;

Perhaps it was plain to foresee, That a nymph so complete would be sought

By a swain more engaging thau me.
Ah! love ev'ry hope can inspire,

It banishes wisdom the while,
And the lip of the nymph we admire,

Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
She is faithless, and I am undone :

Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Let reason instruct you to shun
What it cannot instruct you to cure.

Beware how ye loiter in vain

Amid nymphs of an higher degree; It is not for me to explain

How fair and how fickle they be.

Alas! from the day that we met

What hope of an end to my woes? When I cannot endure to forget

The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain :

The flow's, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,

In time may have comfort for me.

The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows,

Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shewn to the sight,

But we are not to find them our own; Fate never bestow'd such delight

As I with my Phillis had known.

O ye woods, spread your branches apace,

To your deepest recesses I fly; I would hide with the beasts of the chase,

I would vanish from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound thro' the grove

With the same sad complaint it begun; How she smil'd, and I could not but love!

Was faithless, and I am undone!

THE SKYLARK. Go, tuneful bird, that

gladd’st the skies, To Daphne's window speed thy way; And there on quiv'ring pinions rise,

And there thy vocal art display.

And if she deign thy notes to hear,

And if she praise thy matin song, Tell her the sounds that soothe her ear

To Damon's native plains belong. Tell her in livelier plumes array'd,

The bird from Indian groves may shine ; But ask the lovely partial maid,

What are his notes compar'd to thine ? Then bid her treat yon witless beau,

And all his flaunting race, with scorn, And lend an ear to Damon's woe,

Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn.


Written about the Time of his Execution.
OME listen

Cove tender hearts and lovers dear!

Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,

Nor need you blush to shed a tear. And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,

Do thou a pensive ear incline; For thou canst weep at ev'ry woe,

And pity ev'ry plaint-but mine.
Young Dawson was å gallant boy,

A brighter never trod the plain,
And well he lov'd one charming maid,

And dearly was he lov'd again.
One tender maid, she lov'd him dear;

Of gentle blood the damsel came;
And faultless was her beauteous form,

And spotless was her virgin fame. But curse on party's hateful strife,

That led the favor'd youth astray, The day the rebel clans appear'd;

O had he never seen that day!

Their colours and their sash he wore,

And in the fatal dress was found : And now he must that death endure

Which gives the brave the keenest wound. How pale was then his true love's cheek,

When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine snows

So pale or yet so chill appear.
With falt'ring voice she, weeping, said,

• O Dawson, monarch of my heart; • Think not thy death shall end our loves,

• For thou and I will never part. • Yet might sweet mercy find a place,

* And bring relief to Jemmy's woes, • George, without a pray'r for thee

• My orisons should never close. The gracious prince that gave him life

• Would crown a never-dying flame, And ev'ry tender babe I bore

• Should learn to lisp the giver's name. • But tho' he should be draggʻd in scorn

To yonder ignominious tree, • He shall not want one constant friend

• To share the cruel fate's decree.' O then her mourning coach was call'd;

The sledge mov'd slowly on before ; Tho' borne in a triumphal car,

She had not lov'd her fav’rite more.
She follow'd him, prepar'd to view

The terrible behests of law,
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes

With calm and stedfast eye she saw.
Distorted was that blooming face

Which she had fondly lov'd so long, And stified was that tuneful breath

Which in her praise had sweetly sung.

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