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Tho' sighing swains their torments tell,
Their sensual love contemo ;
But slight the joward gem.
Possession cures the wounded heart,
Destroys the transient fire;
Enjoyment whets desire.
By age your beauty will decay,
Your mind improves with years ; As when the blossoms fade away,
The ripening. fruit appears.
May Heaven and Sylvia grant my suit,
And bless the future hour;
When fair Serena first I knew,
By friendship’s happy union charm’d, Incessant joys around her flew,
And geutle smiles my bosom warm id,
But when, with fond officious care, 6
I press'd to breathe my amorous pain, Her lips spoke nought but cold despair,
Her eyes shot ice thro' every vein.
Thus, in Italia's lovely vales,
The sun his genial vigour yields; Reviving heat each sense regates,
And plenty crowns the smiling fields.
When nearer we approach his ray,
High on the Alps' tremendous brow, Surprised, we see pale sun-beams play On everlasting hills of snow.
T. SEWARD, M. A.
All my past life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone; Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store By memory
The time that is to come, is not ;
How then can it be 'mine? The present moment's all my lot, And that, as fast as it is got,
PHyllis, is only thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy,
False hearts, and broken vows;
Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now,
And Celia has undone me; But yet I swear I can't tell how
The pleasing plague stole on me.
'Tis not her face that love creates,
For there no Graces revel; 'Tis not her shape, for there the Fates
Have rather been uncivil.
'Tis not her air, for sure in that
There's nothing more than common, And all her sense is only chat
Like any other woman.
Her voice, her touch might give the alarm,
'Twas both, perhaps, or neither ; In short, 't was that provoking charm Of Celia altogether.
E little Loves, that round her wait
To bring me tidings of my fate, As Celia on her pillow lies,
Ah! gently whisper, “STREPHON dies !"
If this will not her pity move,
And the proud fair disdains to love, Smile, and say, "'Tis all a lie,
And haughty STREPUOn scorns to die."
Swain, thy hopeless passion smother,
“ Oh !” said you, “ when she deceives me,
When that constant creature leaves me,
Turn, ye waters, leave your shore,
Cupid, instruct an amorous, swain
To common youths unknown :
Are methods vulgar grown.
« What need'st thou tell ?" (the God replied) “That love the shepherd cannot hide,
The nymph will quickly find;
Is to suppose them blind."
* The turn in this song is ingeniously copied out of Ovid's epistle from Oenone to Paris :
Cum Paris Oenone poterit spirare relicta,
Ad fontem Xanthi versa recurret aqua.
Xanthe, retro propera, versæque recurrite lymphæg
Sustinet Oenone deseruisse Paris.
Oenone left, when Paris can survive,
The waves of Xanthus shall reverse their courses
Turn, waters, turn, ilow upward to your sources