'Tis not the liquid brightness of those eyes,
That swim with pleasure and delight;

Nor those fair heavenly arches which arise
O'er each of them to shade their light;

'Tis not that air which plays with every wind,
And loves to wanton round thy face;

Now straying o'er thy forehead, now behind
Retiring with insidious grace.

'Tis not that lovely range of teeth, as white
As new shorn sheep, equal and fair ;

Nor even that gentle smile, the heart's delight,
With which no smile could e'er compare ;
'Tis not that chin so round, that neck so fine,
Those breasts that swell to meet my love;
That easy sloping waist, that form divine,
Nor aught below, nor aught above.

'Tis not the living colours over each,

By nature's finest pencil wrought,

To shame the fresh blown rose, and blooming peach, And mock the happiest painters thought:

But 'tis that gentle mind, that ardent love,

So kindly answering my desire ;

[move,

That grace with which you look, and speak, and That thus have set my soul on fire.

[LEE.]

HAIL to the myrtle shade,

All hail to the nymphs of the fields Kings would not here invade

The pleasure that virtue yields. Beauty here opens her arms;

To soften the languishing mind, And Phyllis unlocks her charms; Ah Phyllis ! oh why so unkind?

Phyllis, thou soul of love,

Thou joy of the neighbouring swains; Phyllis, that crowns the grove,

And Phyllis that gilds the plains ; Phyllis, that ne'er had the skill

To paint, to patch and be fine, Yet Phyllis whose eyes can kill, Whom nature hath made divine.

Phyllis, whose charming song

Makes labour and pains a delight; Phyllis, that makes the day young, And shortens the live-long night; Phyllis, whose lips like May

Still laugh at the sweets they bring ; Where love never knows decay,

But sits with eternal spring.

THE MIDSUMMER WISH.

[CROXALL.*]

WAFT me some soft and cooling breeze
To Windsor's shady kind retreat,
Where sylvan scenes, wide spreading trees
Repel the raging dog-star's heat.

Where tufted grass, and mossy beds
Afford a rural calm repose;

Where woodbines hang their dewy heads,
And fragrant sweets around disclose.

Old oozy Thames that flows fast by
Along the smiling valley plays;
His glassy surface cheers the eye,

And thro' the flow'ry meadows strays.

His fertile banks with herbage green
His vales with smiling plenty swell;
Where'er his purer stream is seen

The Gods of health and pleasure dwell.

* Written when the author was at Eton School.

Let me thy clear, thy yielding wave
With naked arm once more divide ;
In thee my glowing bosom lave
And stem thy gently rolling tide.

Lay me with damask roses crown'd
Beneath some osier's dusky shade,
Where water lilies paint the ground

And bubbling springs refresh the glade.

Let chaste Clarinda too be there
With azure mantle lightly drest;
Ye nymphs bind up her silken hair;
Ye Zephyrs fan her panting breast.

O haste away, fair maid, and bring
The Muse, the kindly friend to love,
To thee alone the Muse shall sing

And warble thro' the vocal grove.

WHILE in the bower with beauty blest

The lov'd Amintor lies,

While sinking on Zelinda's breast
He fondly kiss'd her eyes;

A waking nightingale who long
Had mourn'd within the shade,
Sweetly renew'd her plaintive song,
And warbled thro' the glade.

Melodious songstress, cried the swain,
To shades less happy go,
Or if with us thou wilt remain,
Forbear thy tuneful woe.

On her soft bosom while I sigh
I discord find in thee.

Zelinda gives me perfect joys;
Then cease thy fond intrusion;
Be silent; music now is noise

Variety, confusion.