What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast?
Or, lull'd to slumber by the beating rain,
Secure and happy, sink at last to rest?
Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,

And, with my Delia, walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur, as they glide away?

What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop, and gaze on Delia as I go!
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!

Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream,

In silent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for Delia, and myself alone.

Ah, foolish man, who, thus of her possest,
Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
And if his outward trappings spoke him blest,
Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind!
With her I scorn the idle breath of praise,
Nor trust to happiness that's not our own;
The smile of fortune might suspicion raise,
But here I know that I am lov'd alone.

Stanhope *), in wisdom as in wit divine,
May rise, and plead Britannia's glorious cause,
With steady rein his eager wit confine,
While manly sense the deep attention draws.

Let Stanhope speak his listening country's wrong,
My humble voice shall please one partial maid;
For her alone I pen my tender song,
Securely sitting in this friendly shade.

Stanhope shall come, and grace his rural friend;
Delia shall wonder at her noble guest,

Philip Dormer Stanhope, Earl of Chester

field, s. Theil I. S. 263.

With blushing awe the riper fruit commend,
And for her husband's patron cull the best.
Hers be the care of all my little train,
While I with tender indolence am blest,
The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
By love alone distinguish'd from the rest.
For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough,
In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock;
For her a goat - herd climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the naked rock.

Ah, what avails to press the stately bed,
And, far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep,
By marble fountains lay the pensive head,
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep?
Delia alone can please, and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight;
With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,
And equal rapture glows through every night:
Beauty and worth in her alike contend
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind;
In ber, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd.

On her I'll gaze, when others loves are o'er,
And dying press her with my clay-cold hand
Thou weep'st already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.
Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill;
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still:

Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart;
Ob, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.
Let them, extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corse in melancholy state,

Through all the village spread the tender tear,

While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.

P O
POPE.

Biographische und literarische Nachrichten von ihm enthält

der erste Theil des Handbuchs, S. 100 u. ff. In der Ander sonschen Sammlung nehmen seine poetischen Werke einen beträchtlichen Theil des Sten Bandes ein; bei Bell füllen sie den 76sten bis 79sten Band.

་

I) AUTUMN, OR, HYLAS AND AEGON.
To Mr. Wycherley.

Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays,
Hylas and Aegon sung their rural lays;

This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love,
And Delia's name and Doris' fill'd the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring;
Hylas and Aegon's rural lays I sing.

Thou *), whom the Nine, with Plautus' wit inspire,

The art of Terence, and Menander's fire;

Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms,
Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms!
Oh, skill'd in Nature! see the hearts of swains,
Their artless passions, and their tender pains.

Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light;
When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,
Taught rocks to weep and made the mountains groan.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!

To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.

As some sad turtle his lost love deplores,

And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpity'd, and forlorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
For her, the feather'd quires neglect their song;
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny;
For her the lilies hang their heads and die,
Ye flow'rs that droop, forsaken by the spring,

Mr. Wycherley a famous author of comedies.

Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn-heats remove.
Say, is not absence death to those who love?

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay;
Fade ev'ry blossom, wither ev'ry tree,
Die ev'ry flow'r, and perish all, but she.
What have I said? where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and sudden flow'rs arise;
Let op'ning roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
The birds shall cease to tune their ev'ning song,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy sleep to labourers faint with pain,
Not show'rs to larks, or sunshine to the bee,
Are half so charming as thy sight to me.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!

Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay?

Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds, Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.

Ye pow'rs, what pleasing phrenzy soothes my mind! Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?

She comes, my Delia comes! Now cease my lay, And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away!

Next Aegon sung, while Windsor groves admir'd; Rehearse, ye Muses, what yourselves inspir'd.

Resound, ye hills, résound my mournful strain! Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain;

Here where, the mountains, lessening as they rise,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While labouring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the field retreat:
While curling smoaks from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we past the day:
Oft on the rind I carv'd her amorous vows,
While she with garlands hung the bending boughs;
The garlands fade, the vows are worn away;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain,
Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove;
Just Gods! shall all things yield returns but love?
Resound, ye hills, resound mournful lay!
The shepherds cry, Thy flocks are left a prey."
Ah! what avails it me, the flocks to keep,

my

Who lost my heart while I preserv'd my sheep?
Pan came, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my smart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?
What eyes but hers, alas, have pow'r to move!
And is there magic but what dwells in love!

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains!
I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains.
From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
but love!
Forsake mankind, and all the world
I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred,
Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed.
Thou wert from Aetna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born!

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Farewell, ye woods, adieu the light of day!
One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains,
No more, ye hills, no more resound strains!

my

Thus sung the shepherds till th' approach of night,
The skies yet blushing with departing light,
When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade,
And the low sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade *)..

2) ODE

FOR MUSIC ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY ").
I.

Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing;
The breathing instruments inspire;

*) There is a little incuracy bere; the first line makes the time after sun-set; the second before..

**) This is one of the most artful as well as sublime of our Poet's smaller compositions. The first stanza expresses the various tones and measures in music. The second describes their power over the several passions in general. The third explains their