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In Heaven itself thou sure wert dreft
With that angel-like disguise; Thus deluded am I blest,
And see my joy with closed eyes.
But ah! this image is too kind
To be other than a dream : Cruel Sacharissas mind
Never put on that sweet extreme !
Fair dream ! if thou intend'st me grace,
Change that heavenly face of thine ; Paint despis'd love in thy face,
And make it to appear like mine.
Pale, wan, and meagre let it look,
With a pity-moving shape; Such as wander by the brook
Of Lethe, or from graves escape.
Then to that matchless nymph appear,
In whose shape thou shinest fo; Softly in her sleeping ear,
With humble words express my woe.
Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride,
Thus surprised the may fall : Sleep does disproportion hide,
And death resembling, equals all.
When, in the sultry heat of day,
At night, to reft her weary head,
And whilft diffolv'd in sleep she lies,
And then, as soon as chearful day
Thus will I spend the day and night,
But if the nymph, whom thus 1 love,
HY cruel creature, why so bent,
To vex a tender heart? To gold and title you relent;
Love throws in vain his dart.
Let glittering fops in courts be great,
let armies move : Beauty should have no other bait,
But gentle vows and love,
If on those endless charms you lay
The value that's their due ;
A thousand worlds too few.
But if a passion without vice,
Without disguise or art,
Behold it in my heart.
HE sun was funk beneath the hill,
The western clouds were lin'd with gold, The sky was clear, the winds were still,
The flocks were pent within the fold; When from the silence of the grove, Poor Damon thus despair'd of love :
Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose
From the bare rock or oozy beach ;
Expects the grape or blushing peach;
I have no herds, no fleecy care,
No fields that wave with golden grain, No pastures green, or gardens fair,
A damsels venal heart to gain ; Then all in vain my fighs must prove, For I, alas! have nought but love.
How wretched is the faithful youth,
Since womens hearts are bought and sold ; They ask not vows of sacred truth,
Whene'er they figh, they figh for gold. Gold can the frowns of scorn remove, But I, alas ! have nought but love.
To buy the gems of Indias coast,
What wealth, what treasure can suffice?
The living luftre of her eyes:
But I, alas! have nought but love.
O Silvia! since nor gems, nor ore,
Can with your brighter charms compare,
More feldom found, a soul fincere':
S O N G LIV.
TO A SCOTCH TUNE.
BY MR. O T WAY.
No quiet's in my mind,
Were Sylvia less unkind.