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On LUCIND A's Death.


TOME all ye doleful, dismal cares,

That ever haunted guilty mind!
The pangs of love when it despairs,

And all those stings the jealous find:
Alas! heart-breaking tho’ye be,
Yet welcome, welcome all to me!

Who now have lost -but oh! how much?

No language, nothing can express,
Except my grief; for fhe was such,

That praises would but make her less.
Yet who can ever dare to raise
His voice on her, unless to praise?
Free from her sex's smallest faults,

And fair as womankind can be;
Tender and warm as lover's thoughts,

Yet cold to all the world but me. Of all this nothing now remains, But only fighs and endless pains !

To a Lady retiring into a Monastery. WHAT

breast but yours can hold the double fire

Of fierce devotion, and of fond delire?
Love would shine forth, were not your zeal so bright,
Whose glaring flames eclipse his gentler light:
Less seems the faith that mountains can remove,
Than this which triumphs over youth and love.

But shall fome threat’ning priest divide us two?
What worse than that could all his curses do?
Thus with a fright some have resign’d their breath,
And poorly dy'd only for fear of death.

Heav'n fees our passions with indulgence still,
And they who love well, can do nothing ill.
While to us nothing but ourselves is dear,
Should the world frown, yet what have we to fear?
Fame, wealth, and pow'r, those high-priz’dgifts of fate,
The low concerns of a less happy state,
Are far beneath us : fortune's self may take
Her aim at us, yet no impression make;
Let worldlings ask her help, or fear her harms;
We can lie fafe, lock'd in each other's arms,
Like the blest saints, eternal raptures know;
And flight those storms that vainly rest below.

Yet this, all this you are resolv'd to quit;
I see my ruin, and I must submit:
But think, think, before you prove unkind,
How loft a wretch you leave forlorn behind.

Malignant envy, mix'd with hate and fear,
Revenge for wrongs too burdensome to bear,


Evin zeal itself, from whence all mischiefs spring,
Have never done so barbarous a thing.

With such a fate the heav'ns decreed to vex
ARMIDA once, tho' of the fairer sex;
RINALDO she had charm’d with so much art,
Her's was his pow'r, his person, and his heart :
Honour's high thoughts no more his mind could move;
She sooth'd his rage, and turn’d it all to love :
When strait a gust of fierce devotion blows,
And in a moment all her joys o'erthrows:

poor ARMIDA tears her golden hair,
Matchless till now, for love, or for despair.
Who is not mov'd while the fad nymph complains ?
Yet you now act what Tasso only feigns ;
And after all our vows, our sighs, our tears,
My banish'd forrows, and your conquer'd fears;
So many doubts, so many dangers past,
Visions of zeal must vanquish me at last.

Thus, in great Homer's war, throughout the field
Some hero still made all things mortal yield;
But when a God once took the vanquish'd lide,
The weak prevaild, and the victorious dy'd.


Written during a Sea Voyage, when sent to command the Forces for the Relief of Tangier.

WITHIN the filent shades of soft repofe,


Where fancy's boundless stream for ever flows; Where the enfranchis'd soul at ease can play, Tir’d with the toilsome business of the day; Where princes gladly rest their weary heads, And change uneasy thrones for downy beds ; Where seeming joys delude despairing minds, And where ev’n jealousy some quiet finds; There I and sorrow for a while could part, Sleep clos'd my eyes, and eas'd a sighing heart. But here too soon a wretched lover found In deepest griefs the fleep can ne'er be found; With strange surprize my troubled fancy brings Odd antick shapes of wild unbeard-of things ; Dismal and terrible they all appear, My soul was shook with an unusual fear. But as when visions glad the eyes of saints, And kind relief attends devout complaints, Some beauteous angel in bright charms will shine, And spreads a glory round, that's all divine; Just such a bright and beauteous form appears, The monsters vanish, and with them ny


The fairest shape was then before me brought,
That eyes e'er faw, or fancy ever thought;
How weak are words to shew such excellence,
Which ev'n confounds the soul, as well as sense !
And, while our eyes transporting pleasure find,
It stops not here, but strikes the very mind.
Some angel speak her praise ! No human tongue,
But with its utmost art must do her wrong.
The only woman that has pow'r to kill,
And yet is good enough to want the will;
Who needs no soft alluring words repeat,,
Nor study'd looks of languishing deceit.
Fantastick beauty, always in the wrong,
Still thinks fome pride muft to its pow'r belong;
An air affected, and a haughty mien;
Something that seems to say, "I would be seen."
But of all womankind this only she,
Full of its charms, and from its frailty free,
Deserves some nobler muse her fame to raise,
By making the whole sex beside, her pyramid of praise.
She, she appear'd, the source of all my joys;
The dearest care that all my thought employs:
Gently she look'd, as when I left her last;
When first she seiz'd my heart, and held it fast;
When, if my vows, alas! were niade too late,
I saw my doom came not from her, but fate.
With pity then she eas'd my raging pain,
And her kind eyes could scarce from tears refrain:
Why gentle swain, faid she, why do you grieve
In words I should not hear, much less believe?
I gaze on that which is a fault to mind,
And ought to fly the danger which I find :

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