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AT SETTING DAY
Since sounding drums, and rising war,
love to danger, I'll ask of every smiling star,
To shield my roving ranger.
press the foe, retreating,
Of our more gentle ineeting.
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.
And, cold, on yon bleak mountain,
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
When Phæbus heard Ianthe sing,
And sweetly bid the groves rejoice,
Despairing quite to match her voice.
Smiling, her harpsichord she strung :
As soon as she began to play,
It was no time for him to stay.
Yet hold; before your godship go,
The fair shall gain another prize :
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?
0! can't you their meaning explain?
My passion would lose by expression,
And you too might cruelly blame ;
Of what is too tender to name.
Why should you expect it from me;
'Till you tell us what they should be.
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.)
LADY JIARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.
Good Madam when ladies are willing,
A man must needs look like a fool ;
For one that can love without rule.
Nor snatch like old maids in despair ;
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 !
Indeed is too mellow for me.
AS O'ER ASTERIA'S FIELDS I ROVE.
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,
Kind relief in all my pain,
See her move!
Ye gods above!
Fly ye winged Cupids ! fly;