Окт [BY THEOBALD.] on the troubled ocean's face The murmuring surges swell apace, But when the tempest's rage is o'er, Not so in fond and amorous souls FLY, thoughtless youth, th' enchantress fly !* * This piece is taken from a publication entitled, Sentimental Tales, in which the loves of Catullus and Lesbia are formed into a fictitious story, intermixed with several poetical translations and imitations from Catullus's Works. This however seems entirely original. She nor regards thy sighs or tears, She triumphs in thy jealous fears, [years. And would rejoice to blast the blossom of thy Yet yonder myrtle's fragrant shade, Where sparkling winds the crystal rill, Has seen this false, this cruel maid, Fond as her wanton lover's will: Has seen thee on her breast reclin❜d, Has seen her arms around thee twin'd, [kind. While with caresses sweet she woo'd thee to be But since no more th' inconstant fair Will listen to thy tender vow, Adieu, false beauty! hence no more Catullus will thy smile implore, [shore. To shun thy hated charms he seeks a foreign Him thou wilt mourn, when sure decay Shall rob that form of every grace; And for each charm it steals away, Shall add a wrinkle to that face: No lover then for thee will sigh, Or read the glances of thine eye, [die. Or on thy once lov'd breast in amorous transports Alas, Catullus! you in vain Would spurn imperial beauty's sway; Fast bound in Venus' magic chain, Soon will each rebel wish decay; Ev'n now, should Lesbia hither move How weak, how feeble all thy strong resolves would prove. [LANSDOWN.] PREPAR'D to rail, resolved to part, With the least glance a little kind Such wond'rous power have Myra's charms, She calms my doubts, enslaves my mind, And all my rage disarms. Forgetful of her broken vows When gazing on that form divine, Her injur'd vassal trembling bows, Nor dares her slave repine. [OTWAY.] COME all ye youths whose hearts e'er bled, By cruel beauty's pride; Let none his sorrows hide : #T But hand in hand around me move, The happiest mortal once was I, But ask not whence it grew': Tho' bright as heaven whose stamp she bears, Think of my fate, and shun her snares. [DRYDEN.] ON a bank, beside a willow, Singing, thus she made her moan; Hope is banish'd, Joys are vanish'd, Damon, my belov'd, is gone. Time, I dare thee to discover Murmuring blisses, Who so liv'd and lov'd as we ? |