SEE! how the willing earth gave way,
To take the' impression where she lay.
See! how the mould, as loth to leave
So sweet a burden, still doth cleave
Close to the nymph's stain'd garment. Here
The coming spring would first appear,
And all this place with roses strow,
If busy feet would let them grow.
Here Venus smiled to see blind Chance
Itself before her son advance,
And a fair image to present,
Of what the boy so long had meant.
'Twas such a chance as this made all
The world into this order fall;
Thus the first lovers, on the clay,
Of which they were composed, lay.
So in their prime, with equal grace,
Met the first patterns of our race.
Then blush not, Fair! or on him frown,
Or wonder how you both came down ;
But touch him, and he'll tremble straight;
How could he then support your weight?
How could the youth, alas! but bend,
When his whole heaven upon him lean'd?
If aught by him amiss were done,
'Twas that he let you rise so soon.
OUR sighs are heard; just Heaven declares
The sense it has of lovers' cares:
She that so far the rest outshined,
Sylvia the fair, while she was kind,
As if her frowns impair'd her brow,
Seems only not unhandsome now :
So when the sky makes us endure
A storm, itself becomes obscure.
Hence 'tis that I conceal my flame,
Hiding from Flavia's self her name,
Lest she, provoking Heaven, should prove
How it rewards neglected love.
Better a thousand such as I,
Their grief untold, should pine and die,
Than her bright morning, overcast
With sullen clouds, should be defaced.
LATELY on yonder swelling bush,
Big with many a coming rose,
This early bud began to blush,
And did but half itself disclose :
I pluck'd it though no better grown,
And now you see how full 'tis blown.
Still as I did the leaves inspire,
With such a purple light they shone, As if they had been made of fire,
And spreading so, would flame anon:
All that was meant by air or sun,
To the young flower, my breath has done.
If our loose breath so much can do,
What may the same in forms of love,
Of purest love, and music too,
When Flavia it aspires to move?
When that which lifeless buds persuades
To wax more soft her youth invades ?
DISCOVERY OF A LADY'S PAINTING.
PYGMALION's fate reversed is mine;
His marble love took flesh and blood;
All that I worshipped as divine,
That beauty! now 'tis understood,
Appears to have no more of life
Than that whereof he framed his wife.
As women yet, who apprehend
Some sudden cause of causeless fear,
Although that seeming cause take end,
And they behold no danger near,
A shaking through their limbs they find;
Like leaves saluted by the wind:
So though the beauty do appear
No beauty, which amazed me so;
Yet from my breast I cannot tear
The passion which from thence did grow;
Nor yet out of my fancy rase
The print of that supposed face.
A real beauty, though too near,
The fond Narcissus did admire ;
I dote on that which is no where ;
The sign of beauty feeds my fire.
No mortal flame was e'er so cruel
As this, which thus survives the fuel!
OF LOVING AT FIRST SIGHT.
NOT caring to observe the wind,
Or the new sea explore,
Snatch'd from myself, how far behind
Already I behold the shore!
May not a thousand dangers sleep
In the smooth bosom of this deep?
No: 'tis so rockless and so clear,
That the rich bottom does appear
Paved all with precious things; not torn
From shipwreck'd vessels, but there born.
Sweetness, truth, and every grace,
Which time and use are wont to teach,
The
eye may in a moment reach,
And read distinctly in her face.
Some other nymphs with colours faint,
And pencil slow, may Cupid paint,
And a weak heart in time destroy;
She has a stamp, and prints the Boy;
Can with a single look inflame
The coldest breast, the rudest tame.
THE SELF-BANISHED.
IT is not that I love you less
Than when before your feet I lay;
But to prevent the sad increase
Of hopeless love, I keep away.
In vain, alas! for every thing,
Which I have known belong to you, Your form does to my fancy bring,
And makes my old wounds bleed anew.
Who in the spring, from the new sun,
Already has a fever got,
Too late begins those shafts to shun,
Which Phoebus through his veins has shot:
Too late he would the pain assuage,
And to thick shadows does retire ;
About with him he bears the rage,
And in his tainted blood the fire.
But vow'd I have, and never must
Your banish'd servant trouble
For if I break, you may mistrust
The vow I made to love you too.
As lately I on silver Thames did ride,
Sad Galatea on the bank I spied :
Such was her look as sorrow taught to shine,
And thus she graced me with a voice divine.
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