Oh love, thou tyrant of the age,
What joy we ought to find in thee,
Since ev'ry other joy by thee is loft!
All we have we quit for love,
And by its lordly call we leave our native home.
It breaks thro' friendship, and tears with rapid charms,
"The fighing maid from her fond mother's arms."
It has no equal, but acts without controul,
And reigns ungovern'd in th' immortal foul.
Wrote in Kenfington Gardens.
Addreffed to a LADY.
As the genial fun re-animates the water'd plants,
Who in humble gratitude seem to return praise
To their omniscient founder,
And proudly smile in verdure at that which gave 'em
So I, in unfurling my ideas to thy entender'd heart,
Exult with joy at the hero of my pen,
And bless fincerely the object of my bliss:
Tho', like an invaded fortress,
I am befieg'd around by defigning foes,
Whose blood recoils at the peace of those within,
Yet can I (tho' not fo haply) to you
Convey my thoughts by some obedient quill.
Oft, under the covert of elm and fhady groves, Where I am wont my frame to proftrate,
Near which the chrystal brook pours forth its waters,
And murmurs in its course I deeply
Ruminate on the supernal works of heaven,
Big with fluctuating thoughts my mind
Lull'd in calm ferenity, I talk in imagination
With the vernal fhrubs, which more than man
Yield to nature's law, and flourish in return.
From this cool retreat, moft fragrant,
I view the plumed nation, whose jocund spirits
My plaintive voice attend, and ask me
Why I look fo dull? 'till in exchanging converse,
From branch to branch they skip,
And fay, 'Tis furely love.
I rais'd my fpirits at the thought, think
The warbling creatures honeft, and crave
Their aid to make a captive happy :
When readily they appear to answer,
'Tis them I ought to copy;
And yield when mutual love demands.
Soothed beyond compare, I enjoy the thought
Of truth, and think myself
In this retreat fuperlatively easy :
While pale villainy-haggard wretchedness,
Fell debauchery, and diffipation wild,
Combine 'gainst meek-ey'd innocence,
And riot in the spoils of virtue.
Thus footh'd, as follows I repeat:
"Attend, ye trees, ye woods, ye brooks, Ye undulating waters-and join
In fong with an humble human plant.
Rife, ye little fish, exhale thy fcaly powers
In praise of the Almighty, who form'd
The world from naught, and all that therein is;
Plac'd our primeval parents
In the land of blifs, and gave to man
A mind fuperior to all, to make him ruler
Of the immenfe creation.
Rife, ye worms, from your earthly caverns,
And view the wonders of Omnipotence;
Diffuse your filent praifes to the Lord of Lords,
In emanations of divineft complacency,
And then refume your element again;
Left on its fuperfices, where man exifts,
Ye receive contagion, and on a sudden
Convert thy innocence to ill."
Thus repeating, the herbs and trees, From a feeming fenfe of what I utter,
Shew theirs, hy entering their dark receffes;
'Till, from a pause contemplative and long,
My mind concludes, That to be virtuous,
Is to be retir'd; To fteal from the
Degen'rate crowd,' affociate little;
And to be happy is alone the business
Of those who are content;
Remote to every one who really loves,
Like you and
WHAT tho' I once refolv'd and ftrove
To quell and fpurn the force of love,
I then could not my mind controul,
While fuch fond
pangs were in my foul 1;
Thus was I when I thought of love,
And fancied pain I might remove.—
Alas! how free we fhew our will
To ftop the love we do not feel!
For feeling now I can no refuge find,
But in the favours of my charmer's mind.
Peace and content from hence appear a dream,
While love remains my fympathetic theme.
In vain I ftrive my paffions to appease,
But ev'ry thought is ftranger to my ease;
Excepting that whereby I hope to have
The happy hand and heart of her I crave.
Where'er I feek or roam, at night or morn,
Still ev'ry place is abfent and forlorn :
Imagin'd joys amufe my troubled brain,
Inflames my mind, and ends in woeful pain.
Thus fhall it be 'till I partake the kifs,
And Cupid crowns the object of my blifs.
Welcome, new year, now time rejoice again,
Thou god of hope, who ease impending pain; Hail tender year, feeble as young,
Nor let thy welcome be unfung,
By all who crave relief in fortune's womb,
In hope's deep abyss, in time's recumbent womb.
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