A brisk bright agent from the streams
Arm'd with no arrows, but their beams,
And with such stillness smites our hearts,
No noise betrays him, nor his darts.
He working on my easie soul

Did soon persuade, and then controul;
And now he flyes-and I conspire-
Through all my blood with wings of fire,
And when I would-which will be never-
With cold despair allay the fever:
The spightfull thing, Etesia names,
And that new-fuells all my flames.

THE CHARACTER, TO ETESIA. O catch the phoenix, and then bring A quill drawn for me from his wing. Give me a maiden, beautie's bloud, A pure, rich crimson, without mudd: In whose sweet blushes that may live, Which a dull verse can never give. Now for an untouch'd, spottles white, For blackest things on paper write; Etesia at thine own expence Give me the robes of innocence.

Could we but see a spring to run

Pure milk, as sometimes springs have done, And in the snow-white streams it sheds, Carnations wash their bloudy heads,

While ev'ry eddy that came down

Did-as thou do'st-both smile and frown. Such objects, and so fresh would be

But dull resemblances of thee.

Thou art the dark world's morning-star,

Seen only, and seen but from far;

Where like astronomers we gaze

Upon the glories of thy face,

But no acquaintance more can have,

Though all our lives we watch and crave.

Thou art a world thy self alone,

Yea three great worlds refin'd to one.
Which shews all those, and in thine eyes

The shining East and Paradise.

Thy soul-a spark of the first fire,-
Is like the sun, the world's desire;
And with a nobler influence

Works upon all, that claim to sense;
But in Summers hath no fever,

And in frosts is chearful ever.

As flowrs, besides their curious dress Rich odours have, and sweetnesses. Which tacitely' infuse desire

1 Noticeable use of a now familiar word. G.

And er'n oblige us to admire :

Such and so full of innocence

Are all the charms, thou do'st dispence,

And like fair Nature, without arts

At once they seize, and please our hearts.

O thou art such, that I could be

A lover to idolatry!

I could, and should from heav'n stray,
But that thy life shews mine the way,
And leave a while the Diety'

To serve His image here in thee.

TO ETESIA LOOKING FROM HER CASEMENT AT THE FULL MOON.

EE you that beauteous queen, which no

age tames?

Her train is azure, set with golden

flames:

My brighter fair, fix on the East your eyes,

And view that bed of clouds, whence she doth

rise.

Above all others in that one short hour

Which most concern'd in, she had greatest pow'r.

This made my fortune humorous as wind,

1 Sic = deity. G. 2 Changeable. G.

But fix'd affections to my constant mind.

She fed me with the tears of stars, and thence,

I suck'd in sorrow with their influence.

To some in smiles, and store of light she broke :
To me in sad eclipses still she spoke.

She bent me with the motion of her sphere,
And made me feel, what first I did but fear.

But when I came to age, and had o'regrown
Her rules, and said my freedom was my own,
I did reply unto the laws of Fate,
And made my reason my great advocate:
I labour'd to inherit my just right;
But then-O hear Etesia!-lest I might
Redeem my self, my unkind starry mother,
Took my poor heart, and gave it to another.

TO ETESIA PARTED FROM HIM, AND
LOOKING BACK.

SUBTILE Love! thy peace is war;
It wounds and kills without a scar:
It works unknown to every sense,

Like to decrees of Providence,

And with strange silence shoots us through :
The fire of Love doth fall like snow.

Hath she no quiver, but my heart?
Must all her arrows hit that part?

Beauties like heav'n, their gifts should deal
Not to destroy us, but to heal.

Strange art of Love! that can make

sound,

And yet exasperates the wound:

That look she lent to ease my heart,

Hath pierc't it, and improv'd the smart.

IN ETESIAM LACHRYMANTEM.

dulcis luctus, risuque potentior omni! Quem decorant lachrymis sydera tanta

suis.

Quam tacitæ spirant auræ vultusque nitentes
Contristant veneres, collachrymantque suæ !
Ornat gutta genas, oculisque simillima gemma:
Et tepido vivas irrigat imbre rosas.
Dicite Chaldæi! quæ me fortuna fatigat,
Cum formosa dies et sine nube peruit?