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Let all my slaves their arts combine
To make the blushing ruby mine,
From eastern thrones the diamonds bear
To sparkle at her breast and ear.
Swift, Scythian, point th' unerring dart,
That strikes the Ermine's little heart,
And search for choicest furs the globe
To make my MYRTILIS a robe.

Ah, no: Yon Indian will not go,
No Scythian deigns to bend his bow.
No sullen Negro shoots the flood.
How, slaves!Or am I understood
All, all, my empty power disown,
I turn and find myself alone;

'Tis Fancy's vain illusion all,
Nor Moor nor Scythian waits my call.
Can I command, can I consign?

Alas, what earthly thing is mine?

Come then, my Muse, companion dear Of poverty, and soul sincere, Come dictate to my grateful mind A gift that may acceptance find; Come, gentle Muse, and with thee bear An offering worthy thee and her ; And though thy presents be but poor, My MYRTILIS will ask no more.

An heart that scorns a shameful thing,
With love and verse, is all I bring,
Of love and verse the gift receive,
'Tis all thy servant has to give.

If all whate'er my verse has told, Golconda's gems, and Afric's gold; If all were mine from pole to pole, How large her share who shares my soul? But more than these may Heaven impart ; Be thine the treasures of the heart; Be calm, and glad thy future days With Virtue's peace, and Virtue's praise. Let jealous pride, and sleepless Care, And wasting Grief, and black Despair And Langour chill, and Anguish fell, For ever shun thy grove and cell ; There only may the happy train Of Love, and Joy, and Peace, remain : May Plenty, with exhaustless store, Employ thy hand to feed the poor, And ever on thy honor'd head The prayer of Gratitude be shed.

A happy mother may'st thou see Thy smiling virtuous progeny, Whose sportful tricks, and airy play, Fraternal love, and prattle gay,

Or wonderous tale, or joyful song
May lure the lingering hours along,
Till Death arrive, unfelt, unseen,
With gentle pace, and placid mien,
And waft thee to that happy shore,
Where wishes can have place no more.



ON HER PLAYING UPON THE HARPSICHORD, In a Room hung with some Flower-Pieces of her own Painting.

By the Same.

WHEN STELLA strikes the tuneful string

In scenes of imitated Spring,
Where beauty lavishes her powers,
On beds of never-fading flowers,
And Pleasure propagates around
Each charm of modulated sound,
Ah! think not in the dangerous hour,
The Nymph fictitious as the flower;
But shun, rash youth, the gay alcove,
Nor tempt the snares of wily love.

When charms thus press on every sense,
What thought of flight, or of defence?
Deceitful Hope, and vain Desire,
For ever flutter o'er her lyre,
Delighting, as the youth draws nigh,
To point the glances of her eye.

And forming, with unerring art,
New chains to hold the captive heart.
But on these regions of delight,

Might Truth intrude with daring flight, Could STELLA, sprightly, fair, and young, One moment hear the moral song, Instruction with her flowers might spring, And Wisdom warble from her string.

Mark, when from thousand mingled dyes, Thou seest one pleasing form arise, How active light, and thoughtful shade, In greater scenes each other aid; Mark, when the different notes agree In friendly contrariety,

How passion's well-accorded strife,
Gives all the harmony of life,
Thy pictures shall thy conduct frame,
Consistent still, though not the same,
Thy music teach the nobler art
To tune the regulated heart.

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