Yet less variety gives full delight.

See! see! th' alternate glories of the skies
Blend in her form, and all at once surprize;
Her rosy cheek the blush of morning shews,
Her dazling eyes the mid-day sun disclose;
Her air resembles well the milky way,

There Stars unnumber'd shine, here Loves unnum. ber'd play.

O! why did Heaven, which thus adorn'd the fair,
And made the workmanship so much its care,
'Not with soft pity temper all the rest,

And place this kind reliever in her breast?

Still poor camelions, we must live on air,

She thinks a look too much-the lover's smallest fare.

There's no way to be safe from HARTLEY'S darts, Nor light nor darkness can secure our hearts; Both eyes and ears are traitors to repose, Looking or listening, ends in amorous woes; Gods! when we see we're vanquish'd by her view, And, while we hear, her melting notes subdue. Muse, sing the nymph that 's so compos'd for fame, Make Heaven and Earth acquainted with her name; Thyself, oh Nymph, to teach the Muse incline, For there's no perfect melody but thine;

Then she might haply boast a warbling air,

And form the song as sweet, as Nature form'd thee

fair.

Reach distant MUNDY, Muse, with sounding

strains,

Th' excelling maid that wastes her time in plains;
Bid her appear and bless the longing sight:
Retirement's wrong for youth, for age 'tis right.
Say, that her presence to the world is due :
Aspects so brilliant are ordain'd for view.
The Sun, whose glory's but to match her eyes,
Flashes diffusive beams, and brightens all the skies.

Certain as Fate, and swift as feather'd darts, Oh, WILLIAMSON! thy arrows pierce our hearts; Once with an equal right to glory shin'd A signal charmer of thy own bright kind; Once-but remorseless death too quickly seiz'd This finish'd object, that so vastly pleas'd; No respite from concern our souls could find, Did she not leave thee here, a wonder still behind.

Like banks adorn'd with Nature's flowery train, ALSTON'S Sweet look delights th' admiring swain : Pleas'd, not content, he lets his wishes rise, And would regale more senses than his eyes, But, hid in bloom, that serpent, scorn, destroys The lover's fondest hopes, and poisons all his joys.

The DASHWOODS are a family of charms, Each Nymph's appointed with resistless arms, So soft, so sweet, so artless, and so young,

Pride of the sight, and pleasure of the tongue.
Dearly we pay for such immoderate light,
Beauty's, like Love, severely exquisite ;
Our souls are wound to that excessive height,
We suffer, not enjoy, the vast delight.

Nor less renown'd in charms the HERVEYS stand: How fair they seem! how fashion'd for command! Each of herself might singly challenge praise, One were a tempting task for endless lays, Did not Another and Another shine, Splendid alike, and equally divine, As if imperial Beauty meant no more

To reign at large, and spread her mighty power; But with unequal favor would confine

Her numerous treasures to that darling Line.

Can SMITH unnoted pass, so fram'd for praise!
Ev'n Britain's court grows brighter with her rays.
Oh lovely conflict of her varying hue!
Lily and Rose by grateful turns subdue.
Promiscuous charms our ravish'd senses greet,
Here April's bloom, and August's ripeness meet;
Delights, which seem but to salute the year,
Eternally reside, and florish here;

Who can express which season cheers him most?
How gay the minutes fly, when she 's the toast!

Bright as the stone, with which the glass we wound, Inspiring as the juice, which with the glass is crown'd.

Oh, WILKINSON! who can of beauty sing, And not an offering to thy altar bring?

Who can describe the young, the sweet, the fair, And not thy charms, thy wondrous charms declare ? Unsullied lustre dwells upon thy face,

Nor eye can find a stain, nor fancy mend a grace.

One pleasure more, indulgent Muse, afford,
Pleasure supreme, when FORRESTER's the word!
Desert so vast commands thy utmost lays,
And sure 'tis almost impious not to praise;
Praise dare I call it, when each boldest line
Shows like weak twilight to meridian shine?
Lo! mien, complexion, features, voice, conspire,
Perfection's brands, to set the world on fire;
Oh she's all wonders! Heaven's whole excellence
Meets in her frame, and fills our every sense;
That grace, which most ennobles who can name,
Where all 's divinely great, entitled all to fame ?
As well the man, who travels all the day

Scorch'd with the sun, might tell the fiercest ray;
He knows the lucid author of his flames,

But with his parching heat alike he charges all the beams.

Ye numerous CHARMERS, who remain unsung,
Forgive th' unequal tribute of my tongue,
Not that your conquests fail, my strains expire,
I own your pow'rs and feel a silent fire;

No more my present raptures can pursue,

But when my Muse takes breath, I'll soar, and sing of you.