But now despotic o'er the plains
The awful noon of beauty reigns,

And kneeling crowds adore;

These charms arise too fiercely bright,
Danger and death attend the sight,
And I must hope no more.

Thus to the rising God of day
Their early vows the Persians pay,
And bless the spreading fire;

Whose glowing chariot mounting soon
Pours on their heads the burning noon,
They sicken and expire.

[CHARLES DRYDEN.]

As Ariana young and fair

By night the starry choir did tell,
She found in Cassiopeia's chair

One beauteous light the rest excel :
This happy star unseen before,
Perhaps was kindled from her eyes,
And made for mortals to adore

A new-born glory in the skies.

Or if within the sphere it grew,

Before she gaz'd, the lamp was dim But from her eyes the sparkles flew

;

That gave new lustre to the gem: Bright omen! what dost thou portend, Thou threat'ning beauty of the sky; What great, what happy monarch's end? For sure by thee 'tis sweet to die.

Whether to thy foreboding fire

We

We owe the crescent in decay;
Or must the mighty Gaul expire,
A victim to thy fatal ray?
Such a presage will late be shewn

Before the world in ashes lies;

But if less ruin will atone,

Let Strephon's only fate suffice.

WHEN first I saw Lucinda's face,

And view'd the dazzling glories there, She seem'd of a diviner race,

Than that which nature planted here.

With sacred homage down I feel,

Wond'ring whence such a form could spring; Tell me, I cried, fair vision, tell

The dread commands from heaven you bring.

For if past sins may be forgiven,

By this bright evidence I know
The careful Gods have made a heaven,
That made such angels for it too.

[WALLER.]

CHLORIS, yourself you so excel,

When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought,

That like a spirit, with this spell

Of my own teaching, I am caught.

The eagle's fate and mine are one,

Which on the shaft that made him die

Espied a feather of his own,

Wherewith he used to soar so high.

Had Echo with so sweet a grace
Narcissus' loud complaints return'd,

Not for reflection of his face,

But of his voice, the boy had burn'd.

[MRS. TAYLOR.]

STREPHON has fashion, wit and youth
With all things else that please;
He nothing wants but love and truth
To ruin me with ease:

But he is flint, and bears the art
To kindle strong desire;

His pow'r inflames another's heart,
Yet he ne'er feels the fire.

O! how it does my soul perplex,
When I his charms recall,
To think he should despise the sex,
Or worse, should love 'em all.
My wearied heart, like Noah's dove,
Thus seeks in vain for rest;
Finding no hope to fix its love,
Returns into my breast.

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AT Cynthia's feet I sigh'd, I pray'd,

And wept yet all the while The cruel unrelenting maid

Scarce paid me with a smile.

Such foolish timorous arts as these
Wanted the power to charm;
They were too innocent to please,
They were too cold to warm.

Resolv'd, I rose, and softly prest
The lilies of her neck;

With longing eager lips I kist

The roses of her cheek.

Charm'd with this boldness, she relents,
And burns with equal fire;
To all my wishes she consents,
And crowns my fierce desire.

With heat like this Pygmalion mov'd
His statue's icy charms;

Thus warm'd, the marble virgin lov'd,
And melted in his arms.

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