: The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain Within herself this elegance of love, This fair inspired delight: her tempered powers The world's foundations-if to these the mind Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms He meant, he made us to behold and love Whom Nature's works can charm, with God himself And form to his the relish of their souls. DAVID MALLETT. 1700-1765. WILLIAM AND MARGARET. "TWAS at the silent, solemn hour Her face was like an April morn, So shall the fairest face appear, When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear, When Death has reft their crown. Her bloom was like the springing flower, The rose was budded in her cheek, But love had, like the canker-worm, The rose grew pale and left her cheek; "Awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls, Come from her midnight-grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid Thy love refused to save. "This is the dumb and dreary hour, When injured ghosts complain; When yawning graves give up their dead, To haunt the faithless swain. "Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, “Why did you promise love to me, Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep? "How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, "Why did you say my lip was sweet, "That face, alas! no more is fair, Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every charm is fled. "The hungry-worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear. "But, hark! the cock has warn'd me hence; A long and late adieu! Come see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you." The lark sung loud; the morning smiled With beams of rosy red: Pale William quaked in every limb, And raving left his bed. He hied him to the fatal place And stretch'd him on the green-grass turf, And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name, WILLIAM SHENSTONE. ODE TO MEMORY. OH Memory! celestial maid! 1714-1763. Who glean'st the flowerets cropp'd by Time; And, suffering not a leaf to fade, Preserv'st the blossoms of our prime; Bring, bring those moments to my mind When life was new, and Lesbia kind. And bring that garland to my sight With which my favour'd crook she bound; The gentle things she deign'd to say. And sketch with care the Muse's bower, That shines on Cherwell's verdant side; The song it 'vails not to recite But sure, to sooth our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appear'd more bright Than other banks, than other streams: Or, by thy softening pencil shown, Assume thy beauties, not their own. And paint that sweetly vacant scene, When, all beneath the poplar bough, My spirits light, my soul serene, I breathed in verse one cordial vow: That nothing should my soul inspire But friendship warm, and love entire. Dull to the sense of new delight, On thee the drooping Muse attends; As some fond lover, robb'd of sight, On thy expressive power depends; Nor would exchange thy glowing lines, To live the lord of all that shines. But let me chase those vows away Which at ambition's shrine I made; Nor ever let thy skill display Those anxious moments, ill repaid: Oh! from my breast that season raze, And bring my childhood in its place. Bring me the bells, the rattle bring, Then will I muse, and pensive say, While innocence allow'd to waste! |