Vain futile idols, bird or flow'r,
To tempt a votary's pray'r !
How would his humble homage tow'r
Should he behold my Fair!

Yes-might the pagan's waking eyes,
O'er FLAVIA's beauty range,

He there would fix his lasting choice,
Nor dare, nor wish to change.

SONG

SONG X. 1743.

HE fatal hours are wonderous near,

TH

That, from these fountains, bear my

A little space is giv'n; in vain;
She robs my fight, and shuns the plain.

A little fpace, for me to prove
My boundless flame, my endless love;
And like the train of vulgar hours,
Invidious time that space devours.

Near yonder beech is DELIA's way,
On that I gaze the livelong day;
No eastern monarch's dazzling pride
Should draw my longing eyes afide.

The chief, that knows of fuccours nigh,
And fees his mangled legions die,
Cafts not a more impatient glance,

To see the loitering aids advance.

Not more, the school-boy that expires
Far from his native home, requires
To fee fome friend's familiar face,
Or meet a parent's last embrace-

dear

She

She comes-but ah! what crouds of beaux
In radiant bands my fair enclofe;

Oh! better hadft thou fhun'd the

Oh DELIA! better far unfeen.

Methinks, by all my

tender fears,

By all my fighs, by all my tears,

green,

I might from torture now be free

'Tis more than death to part from thee !

VOL. I.

M

SONG

SONG XI. 1744.

P

ERHAPS it is not love, faid I,

That melts my foul when FLAVIA's nigh;

Where wit and fenfe like her's agree,

One may

be pleas'd, and yet be free.

The beauties of her polish'd mind,
It needs no lover's eye to find;
The hermit freezing in his cell,
Might wish the gentle FLAVIA well.

It is not love-averfe to bear
The fervile chain that lovers wear;
Let, let me all my fears remove,
My doubts difpel-it is not love-

Oh! when did wit fo brightly shine
In any form lefs fair than thine?
It is it is love's fubtle fire,

And under friendship lurks defire.

SONG

SONG XII. 1744.

'ER defert plains, and rufhy meers,
And wither'd heaths I rove;

Where tree, nor fpire, nor cot appears,
I pass to meet my love.

But tho' my path were damask'd o'er
With beauties e'er fo fine;

My bufy thoughts would fly before,

To fix alone-on thine.

No fir-crown'd hills cou'd give delight,

No palace please mine eye:

No pyramid's aerial height,

Where mouldering monarchs lie.

Unmov'd, fhould Eastern kings advance;

Could I the pageant see :

Splendour might catch one fcornful glance,
Not steal one thought from thee.