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Let all my slaves their arts combine
Ah, no: Yon Indian will not go,
'Tis Fancy's vain illusion all,
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,
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
A YOUNG LADY,
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,
When charms thus press on every sense,
And forming, with unerring art,
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,