Enormous in their Gait; I oft have heard
Their Voice and Tread, oft feen 'em as they past,
Sculking and fcowring down, half dead with fear.
Thrice has the Moon wafht all her Orb in Light,
Thrice travell'd o'er, in her obfcure fojourn
The realms of Night inglorious, fince I've liv'd
Amidst these Woods, gleaning from Thorns and Shrubs
A wretched Suftenance. As thus he spoke,
We faw defcending from a Neighb'ring Hill
Blind Polypheme; by weary Steps and flow
The groping Giant with a Trunk of Pine
Explor'd his way; around, his woolly Flocks.
Attended grazing; to the well-known Shore
He bent his Course, and on the Margin ftood,
A hideous Monster, terrible, deform'd;

Full in the midst of his high Front there gap'd
The spacious hollow where his Eye-ball roll'd,
A ghaftly Orifice: He rins'd the Wound,
And wash'd away the Strings and clotted Blood
That cak'd within; then ftalking through the deep
He Fords the Ocean, while the Topmoft Wave
Scarce reaches up his middle fide; we stood
Amaz'd be fure, a fudden Horror chill

Ran through each Nerve, and thrill'd in ev'ry Vein,
'Till ufing all the Force of Winds and Oars
We fped away; he heard us in our Course,

And with his out-ftretch'd Arms around him grop'd,
But finding nought within his reach, he rais'd
Such hideous Shouts that all the Ocean fhook.
Ev'n Italy, tho' many a League remote,
In diftant Eccho's anfwer'd; Ætna roar'd,
Through all its inmoft winding Caverns roar'd,
Rous'd with the Sound, the mighty Family
Of One-ey'd Brothers haften to the Shore,
And gather round the bellowing Polypheme,
A dire Affembly: we with eager hafte
Work ev'ry one, and from afar behold
A Hoft of Giants cov'ring all the Shore.

So ftands a Foreft tall of Mountain Oaks
Advanc'd to mighty growth: the Traveller
Hears from the humble Valley where he rides
The hollow Murmurs of the Winds that blow
Amidst the Boughs, and at the distance fees
The fhady tops of Trees unnumber'd rise,
A ftately Profpect, waving in the Clouds.

On the Death of the late Earl of Rochester. By Mrs. A. BEHN.

M The Young, the Noble Strephon is no more.

Ourn, mourn, ye Mufes, all your lofs deplore,

Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing Light,
And ne'er fhall rife from Death's eternal Night.
So rich a Prize the Stygian Gods ne'er bore,
Such Wit, fuch Beauty, never grac'd their Shore.
He was but lent this duller World t'improve
In all the Charms of Poetry, and Love;
Both were his Gift, which freely he bestow'd,
And like a God, dealt to the wond'ring Crowd.
Scorning the little Vanity of Fame,
Spight of himself attain'd a Glorious name.
But oh! in vain was all his peevish Pride,
The Sun as foon might his vaft Luftre hide,
As piercing, pointed, and more lafting bright,
As fuffering no viciffitudes of Night.

Mourn, Mourn, ye Mufes, all your lefs deplore,
The Young, the Noble Strephon is no more.
Now uninfpir'd upon your Banks we lye,
Unless when we wou'd mourn his Elegy;
His Name's a Genius that wou'd Wit difpenfe,
And give the Theme a Soul, the Words a Senfe.
But all fine Thought that ravish'd when it spoke,
With the foft Youth eternal leave has took;
Uncommon Wit that did the Soul o'ercome,
Is buried all in Strephon's Worship'd Tomb;

Satyr has lost its Art, its Sting is gone,
The Fop and Cully now may be undone;
That dear inftructing Rage is now allay'd,

And no fharp Pen dares tell 'em how they've ftray' d.
Bold as a God was ev'ry lafh he took,
But kind and gentle the chastizing stroke.
Mourn,mourn, yeYouths,whom Fortune has betray'd,
The laft Reproacher of your Vice is dead.
Mourn, all ye Beauties, put your Cypress on,
The truest Swain that e'er Ador'd you's gone;
Think how he lov’d, and writ, and figh'd, and spoke,
Recall his Mein, his Fashion, and his Look.
By what dear Arts the Soul he did surprize,
Soft as his Voice, and charming as his Eyes.
Bring Garlands all of never-dying Flow'rs,
Bedew'd with everlasting falling Show'rs;
Fix your fair Eyes upon your victim'd Slave,
Sent Gay and Young to his untimely Grave.
See where the noble Swain extended lies,
Too fad a Triumph of your Victories;
Adorn'd with all the Graces Heav'n e'er lent,
All that was Great, Soft, Lovely, Excellent-
You've laid into his Early Monument.

Mourn, mourn, ye Beauties, your fad lofs deplore,
The young, the charming Strephon is no more.
Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, whofe Darts
Have loft their wonted Power of piercing Hearts;
Lay by the gilded Quiver and the Bow,
The ufelefs Toys can do no Mischief now,
Those Eyes that all your Arrows Points infpir'd,
Those Lights that gave ye fire, are now retir'd,
Cold as his Tomb, pale as your Mother's Doves;
Bewail him then oh all ye little Loves,
For you the humble Votary have loft
That ever your Divinities could boaft;

Upon your Hands your weeping Heads decline,
And let your Wings encompass round his Shrine

Inftead of Flow'rs your broken Arrows ftrow,
And at his Feet lay the neglected Bow.

Mourn, all ye little Gods, your loss deplore,
The foft, the charming Strephon is no more.
Large was his Fame, but fhort his glorious Race,
Like young Lucretius liv'd and dy'd apace.
So early Rofes fade, so over all

They caft their fragrant Scents, then foftly fall;
While all the fcatter'd perfum'd Leaves declare,
How lovely 'twas when whole, how fweet, how fair.
Had he been to the Roman Empire known,

When great Auguftus fill'd the peaceful Throne;
Had he the noble wond'rous Poet feen,

And known his Genius, and furvey'd his Mein,
(When Wits, and Heroes grac'd Divine abodes,)
He had encreas'd the number of their Gods;
The Royal Judge had Temples rear'd to's Name,
And made him as Immortal as his Fame;

In Love and Verfe his Ovid he'ad out-done,
And all his Laurels, and his Julia won.

Mourn, mourn, unhappy World, his Lofs deplore,
The great, the charming Strephon is no more.

Μ'

To a LADY.

By Mr. CHARLES HOPKINS.

UST all my Life in fruitless Love be spent ?
And never, never will your Heart relent?

Too well, my charming Dear, your Pow'r you know,
And that which makes you play the Tyrant fo.
For ever be the fatal Moment curft,
When fondly I confefs'd my Paffion first.
Oh! that my Flames had never been reveal'd,
Oh! that I now could keep the Fire conceal'd.
Refiftless Love your Victory secures,
And you already know my Soul is yours.

It shows it self thro' all the forc'd' disguise,
Breaks tho' my Lips, and trembles at my Eyes.
My Blood boils high, and rages to be bleft,
My fluctuating Thoughts will never reft,
And know no calm, 'till harbour'd in your Breast.
Relent, at laft, my cruel Fair relent,
And liften kindly to my juft Complaint.
Think on the Paffion that's already paft,
Think that the Paffion will for ever laft.,
O fee with what impatient Fires 1 burn,
And let your pitying Heart make fome return.
My Flames are fo fincere, my Love is fuch,
Some you should Thow,---you cannot show too much.
How bleft fhould 1 in your Poffession be

How happy might you make your felf in me?
No Miftrefs ever led fo fweet a Life,

As you should in th' exploded thing, a Wife;
Years should roll round on Years, and Ages move
In Circles, Crown'd in everlasting Love.

Our mutual Joys, fhould like your Charms be new,
And all my business be to merit you.

What shall I say? Lines after Lines rehearse
Nought but the fondness in the former Verfe.
On the dear Theme I could for ever dwell;
For while I speak to you,----

My fault'ring Tongue can never speak farewel.
In your cold Breaft let Love an Entrance find,
And think, oh! quickly think, of growing kind.
My Flames no more with dull Indiff'rence treat,
Indiffrence is the Lover's hardest Fate;
But if my Ruin is your fix'd Intent,
Urge it I beg you with a clofer bent.

All glimm'rings of the fainteft Hope remove,
Say, that you do not, will not, cannot love.
Extreamly kind, or in Extreams fevere,
Make fure my Blifs, or mad me with Despair.
Forbid me, banish me your charming fight,
Shut from my view thofe Eyes that fhine fo bright,
Shut your dear Image from my Dreams by Night.