But Love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out:

For when I think I'm best resolv'd,

I then am most in doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine:

For I'll believe I have her heart,
As much as she has mine.

[PARNELL.

My days have been so wond'rous free,
The little birds that fly,

With careless ease from tree to tree,
Were not so blest as I.

Ask gliding waters, if a tear

Of mine encreas'd their stream?

Or ask the flying gales, if e'er

I lent a sigh to them.

But now my former days retire,
And I'm by beauty caught:

The tender chains of sweet desire

Are fix'd upon my thought,

An eager hope within my breast
Does ev'ry doubt controul;
And lovely Nancy stands confest,
The mistress of my soul.

Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines,
Ye swains that haunt the grove,
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds,
Ye close retreats of Love ;

With all of nature, all of art,
Assist the dear design,

O teach a young unpractis'd heart
To make her ever mine.

The very thought of change I hate,
As much as of despair,
And hardly covet to be great
Unless it be for her.

'Tis true, the passion in my mind
Is mix'd with soft distress;
Yet while the fair I love is kind,
I cannot wish at less.

1

IF

[GARRICK.]

F truth can fix thy wav'ring heart,
Let Damon urger his claim,

He feels the passion void of art,
The pure, the constant flame.

Though sighing swains their torments tell,
Their sensual love contemn;
They only prize the beauteous shell,
But slight the inward gem.

Possession cures the wounded heart,
Destroys the transient fire;
But when the mind receives the dart,
Enjoyment whets desire.

By age your beauty will decay,

Your mind improves with years; As when the blossoms fade away, The rip'ning fruit appears.

May heaven and Sylvia grant my suit,
And bless each future hour,

That Damon, who can taste the fruit,
May gather ev'ry flower.

ΤΗ

[AKENSIDE.]

H E shape and face let others prize,
The features of the fair;

I look for spirit in her eyes,
And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek, and ivory arm,
Shall ne'er my wishes win;
Give me an animated form,
That speaks a mind within.

1

A soul where awful honour shines; Where sense and sweetness move; Where angel-innocence refines

The tenderness of love :

These are the soul of beauty's frame, Without whose vital aid, Unfinish'd, all the features seem, And all the roses dead.

But ah ! when all these charms unite,

How perfect is the view! With ev'ry image of delight,

And graces ever new ;

Their pow'r but faintly to express,
All language must despair;
But go-behold Aspasia's face!
And read it perfect there.

BLUE-EYED MARY.

IN

a cottage embosom'd within a deep shade, Like a rose in a desert O view the meek maid, Her aspect all sweetness, all plaintive her eye, And a bosom for which e'en a monarch might sigh; Then in neat Sunday gown see her met by the squire,

All attraction her countenance, his all desire.

He accosts her, she blushes, he flatters, she smiles, And soon blue-eyed Mary's seduced by his wiles.

Now with drops of contrition her pillow's wet o'er, But the fleece when once stain'd can know whiteness no more,

The aged folks whisper, the maidens look shy,
To town the squire presses, how can she deny?
There-behold her in lodgings, she dresses in style,
Public places frequents, sighs no more, but reads
Hoyle,

[hate, Learns to squander; they quarrel, his love turns to And soon blue-eyed Mary is left to her fate..