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AT SETTING DAY

AARON HILL.

Since sounding drums, and rising war,
Invite

my

love to danger, I'll ask of every smiling star,

To shield my roving ranger.
While o'er the field, unfearing wounds,
You

press the foe, retreating,
I'll trace the dear remember'd bounds,

Of our more gentle ineeting.

I'll

pass whole days in yon sweet grove, Where first thy tongue deceiv'd me, When, listening dumb, I blush'd my love,

And no fear'd absence griev'd me. On every bank thy side hath press’d,

I'll sleep and dream I'm near thee : And each sweet bird that strains his breast,

Shall wake my hopes to hear ye.
To all our haunts I will repair,

And, cold, on yon bleak mountain,
Trace all thy once trod footsteps there,
And
weep

o'er each sad fountain. There will I teach the trees to wear

Thy name, in soft impression ; And borrow sighs from roving air, To swell

my

soul's confession.

THE CONQUEST.

WILLIAM THOMPSON.

When Phæbus heard Ianthe sing,

And sweetly bid the groves rejoice,
Jealous, he smote the trembling string,

Despairing quite to match her voice.

Smiling, her harpsichord she strung :

As soon as she began to play,
Away his harp poor Phæbus Aung ;

It was no time for him to stay.

Yet hold; before your godship go,

The fair shall gain another prize :
Your voice and lyre's outdone you know ;

No less thy sunshine by her eyes.

(Thompson is the author of "Sickness," a poem in five books, and a very beautiful " Hymn to May," He is now little read.]

DEAR COLIN PREVENT.

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.

Born about 1690--Died 1762.

Dear Colin prevent my warm blushes,

Since how can I speak without pain?
My eyes have oft told you my wishes,

0! can't you their meaning explain?

My passion would lose by expression,

And you too might cruelly blame ;
Then don't you expect a confession,

Of what is too tender to name.
Since yours is the province of speaking,

Why should you expect it from me;
Our wishes should be in our keeping,

'Till you tell us what they should be.
Then quickly why don't you

discover?
Did your heart feel such tortures as mine,
I need not tell over and over,

What I in my bosom confine.

[“ Lady M. W. Montagu, in a letter to her daughter, the Countess of Bute, states that the above poem was handed about as the supposed address of Lady Hertford to Lord William Hamilton, and that she herself wrote these verses attributed to Sir William Yonge." Park. Colin's answer has been printed as Sir William Yonge's.)

COLIN'S ANSWER.

LADY JIARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.

Good Madam when ladies are willing,

A man must needs look like a fool ;
For me I would not give a shilling

For one that can love without rule.
At least you should wait for our offers,

Nor snatch like old maids in despair ;
If you've lived to these years without proffers

Your sighs are now lost in the air.

You should leave us to guess at your blushing,

And not speak the matter too plain; 'Tis ours to be forward and pushing ;

"Tis yours to affect a disdain.

That you're in a terrible taking

From all your fond oglings I see !
But the fruit that will fall without shaking

Indeed is too mellow for me.

AS O'ER ASTERIA'S FIELDS I ROVE.

WILLIAM SOMERVILLE.

Born 1692-Died 1742.

As o'er Asteria's fields I rove, The blissful seat of peace and love, Ten thousand beauties round me rise, And mingle pleasure with surprise. By nature blessed in every part, Adorn’d with every grace of art, This paradise of blooming joys Each raptur'd sense at once employs. But when I view the radiant queen Who form’d this fair enchanting scene, Pardon, ye grots! ye crystal floods ! Ye breathing flowers ! ye shady woods ! Your coolness now no more invites; No more your murmuring stream delights ; Your sweets decay, your verdure's flown; My soul's intent on her alone.

PARAPHRASE UPON A FRENCH SONG.

Venge moi d'une ingrate maitresse,
Dieu du Vin ! j'implore ton yvresse.

WILLIAM SOMERVILLE,

Kind relief in all my pain,
Jolly Bacchus! hear my prayer,
Vengeance on th’ ungrateful fair!
In thy smiling cordial bowl
Drown the sorrows of my soul :
All thy deity employ,
Gild each gloomy thought with joy.
Jolly Bacchus! save, O save,
From the deep-devouring grave,
A poor despairing dying swain.

Haste away,

Haste away,
Lash thy tigers, do not stay ;
I'm undone if thou delay :
If I view those eyes once more,
Still shall love and still adore,
And be more wretched than before.
See the glory round her face!

See her move!
With what a grace!

Ye gods above!
Is she not one of your immortal race?

Fly ye winged Cupids ! fly;
Dart like lightning through the sky:

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