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'Tis not her face that love creates,

For there no graces revel;
"Tis not her shape, for there the fates,

Have rather been uncivil.

* Tis not her air, for sure in that

There's nothing more than common,
And all her sense is only chat,

Like any other woman.
Her voice, her touch might give th’alarm,

'Twas both perhaps, or neither ;
In short, 'twas that provoking charm

Of Celia altogether.

(William Whitehead succeeded Colley Cibber as Poet Laureat. His poems, and his name are now sinking into obscurity.]

STELLA.

DR. JOHNSON.

Born 1709-Died 1784.

Not the soft sighs of vernal gales,
The fragrance of the flowery vales,
The murmurs of the crystal rill,
The vocal grove, the verdant hill;
Not all their charms, though all unite
Can touch my bosom with delight.

Not all the gems on India's shore,
Not all Peru's unbounded store,
Not all the power, nor all the fame,
That heroes, kings, or poets claim;
Nor knowledge which the learn'd approve,
To form one wish my soul can move.
Yet Nature's charms allure my eyes,
And knowledge, wealth, and fame I prize ;
Fame, wealth, and knowledge I obtain,
Nor seek I Nature's charms in vain;
In lovely Stella all combine,
And, lovely Stella! thou art mine.

FLAVIA

WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

Born 1714-Died 1763.

I told my nymph, I told her true,
My fields were small, my flocks were few;
While faultering accents spoke my fear,
That Flavia might not prove sincere.
Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold,
And vagrant sheep that left my fold :
Of these she heard, yet bore to hear ;
And is not Flavia then sincere ?
How chang'd by fortune's fickle wind,
The friends I lov'd became unkind,
She heard, and shed a generous tear ;
And is not Flavia then sincere ?

How if she deigned my love to bless,
My Flavia must not hope for dress;
This too she heard, and smil'd to hear ;
And Flavia sure must be sincere.
Go shear your flocks, ye jovial swains,
Go reap the plenty of your plains ;
Despoil'd of all which you revere,
I know my Flavia's love sincere.

THE LANDSCAPE.

WILLIAM SHEXSTONE.

How pleas'd within my native bowers

Ere while I pass'd the day!
Was ever scene so deck'd with flowers ?

Were ever flowers so gay?
How sweetly smild the hill, the vale,

And all the landscape round!
The river gliding down the dale!

The hill with beeches crown'd! But now,

when urg'd by tender woes,
I speed to meet my dear,
That hill and stream

my
zeal

oppose,
And check my fond career.
No

theme, more,

since Daphne was my Their wonted charms I see: That verdant hill and silver stream,

Divide my love and me.

THE LOVELY DELIA SMILES AGAIN,

WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

The lovely Delia smiles again!

That killing frown has left her brow:
Can she forgive my jealous pain,
And give me back my angry

vow? Love is an April's doubtful day :

Awhile we see the tempest low'r; Anon the radiant heav'n survey,

And quite forget the flitting show'r. The flowers that hung their languid head,

Are banish'd by the transient rains; The vines their wonted tendrils spread,

And double verdure gilds the plains. The sprightly birds, that droop'd no less

Beneath the power of rain and wind, In every raptur'd note, express

The joy I feel,—when thou art kind.

FAIR FIDELE.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

Born 1720-Died 1756.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each op'ning sweet of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen ;

No goblins lead their nightly crew,
The female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The redbreast oft, at ev'ning hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain

In tempests shake the sylvan cell,
Or midst the chace on every plain

The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore ;

For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd till life can charm no more,

And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

(To be sung by Guiderus and Arviragas, in Cymbeline over Fidele, whom they imagine dead. One copy of the song commences :

• To fair Pastora's grassy tomb.')

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