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Let him not want the lasting praise,
(That noble meed of well-Ipent days !)
While, this his mortal dress laid by
With ready grace, and decency,
Now changing on a nobler plan,
To blissful saint from worthy man,
He makes, on yon
celestial shore, One easy transformation more.
Hink not, the fair deceiv'd by poet's lays,
Cupid in sloth in glorious melts his days ; Think not enchain'd on Chloe's breast he lies, Or bathes himself in Delia's languid eyes ; Now here, now there, the wanton wanderer roves, O'er Belgia's waters, or Italia's groves ; Now soothes the hearts of Gallia's filken swains, Now fires the tawny youth on Java's plains. As o'er luxurious China's fields he fails, Upborn by lovers fighs, and balmy gales, Deep in the bosom of a fragrant glade, Where pines slow-moving form'd a dancing shade, Where Zephyr stole the role's rich perfume, And wakeful almonds shook their snowy bloom, Crown'd with rough thickets rose a moss-grown cave, Whose tinkling fides pour down a sparkling wave : Unwilling to desert its native groves, The ling ring stream in Aow'ry lab'rinths roves ; The god of love feeds his insatiate fight, Slow wave his loose wings, and retard his flight.
But say, what soft confufion seiz'd thy breast, What heaving fighs thy instant flame confeft, When Thea broke from Morpheus' dewey arms, Rose from the grot, and blazd in all her charms ? Its swelling orb no hoop enormous spread, Like magic sphere to guard the tim'rous maid ; No torturing stays the yielding waist confin'd, A bliss for lovers arms alone design'd ; Her hair, by no malicious art repress’d, Play'd in the wind, and wanton'd o'er her breast. Jove grew a swan to press the Spartan fair, What form to taste those charms would Cupid wear ?
Quick thro' the founding grove the god descends, Quick at her feet a fighing fappliant bends. Can youth be deaf when Syren passion fues ? Or how can beauty fly, when love pursues ?
No more he seeks the Cyprian's smoaking fanes,
Or fips rich nectar in celestial plains ;
In Thea's heart a flame more pleasing glows,
And from her lips more luscious nectar flows.
Venus indignant saw her power decay,
impetuous through the realms of day :
Thus doft thou guard thy once lov'd parent's throne ?
Shall then the rebel-power my power disown?
See ! where the fatal cause of my disgrace
(Each hateful beauty glowing in her face)
Insulting stands ! There let her fixt remain,
Nor be the anger of a goddess vain.
To kneel to fue lhe Itrove, unhappy maid !
In vain, her stiffening knees refuse their aid :
Her arms she lifts with pain, in wild surprize
She starts to see a verdant branch arise :-
O love ! she try'd to say, thy Thea aid,
Her ruddy lips the envious leaves invade :
Yet then, just finking from his tortur'd view,
Her swimming eyes languilh'd a last adicu.
Venus triumphant, with a scornful smile,
Points to the tree, and seeks the Cyprian ille.
He mark'd the goddess with indignant eyes,
And grief and rage, alternate tyrants, rise.
Then fighing o'er the vegetable fair,
Yet still, he Yaid, thou claim'ft thy Cupid's care!
Her arts no more shall Cytherea prove,
But own my Thea aids the cause of love.
To the free ifle, I'll give thy rites divine,
To nymphs, whose charms alone can equal thine.
For thee the toiling fons of Ind' fhall drain
The honey'd sponge, which swells the leafy cane ; ;
The gentle Naiads to thy fhrine shall bring
The limpid treasures of the crystal spring;
Thy verdant bloom shall stain the glowing Atream,
Diffusing fragrance in the quivering steam;
Around thy painted altars' brittle
Shall dimpled smiles, and fieek-brow'd health preside;
Whilft white-rob'd nymphs display each milder grace,
The morning dream just
glowing on each face.
With joy I fee, in ages yet unborn,
Thy votarists the Britih isle adorn.
With joy I fee enamour'd youths despise
The goblet's lustre for the fair one's eyes :
Till rofy Bacchus shall his wreaths resign,
And Love and Thea triumph o'er the vine.
On a report of the king of Spain's marrying Madame Victoire, a princess of
HO'Frenchmen may promise him Madame Victoire,
He'll find it a trick and a cheat,
An union with France, upon chis or chat score,
Will wed him to Madame. -Defcas. ::
The following epigram was made by a Heffan officer upon Marshal Broglio's being so near taken on the 10th of July, 1761, reconnoitring, and losing bis Spiyng.glass
, which Prince Ferdinand immediately returned. The affair of the 16th of the fame month at Fellinghausen is well knotun.
Le Maréchal de Broglio, dit la Gazette,
Ce fameux héros, favori des cieux,s 3
Le dixieme perdit ses lunettes,.1.17
Et le seizieme les yeux,
903 3.1 0. X 109
In the Gazette we're told, ."14
That Breglio the bold,
His Spečłacles lof by surprize;. !
But when to our cofy.
Fellinghousen was dofts
'Twas found that he wanted bis eyese's
Advice from a Matron to a young Lady concerning wedlock.
RE you read this, then you'll fupposez
That some new lifted lover,
Thro' means of poetry hath chose st1;77: Si
His passion to discover.
No, fair one, I'm a matron grave,
Whom time's care hath wasted,
Who would thy youth from forrow fave,... :)
Which I in wedlock" tasted.
Thy tender air, thy chearful mein,
Thy temper fo alluring,
Thy form for conquest well designd,
Gives torments past enduring;
And lovers, full of hopes, and fears,
Surround thy beauties daily,
Whilst yet, regardless of thy cares,
Thy moments pass on gayly,
Then pass them, charmer, gaylier on,
A maiden whilft you tarry ;
For, troth, your golden days are gone,
The moment that you marry.
In courtship we are all divine,
And vows and prayers ensnare us;
Darts, flames, and tears adorn our shrines,
And artfully men woo us.
Then who'd the darling power forego,
Which ignorance has given ;
To ease them of eternal woe
Muft we resign our heav'n?
No, marriage lets the vizard fall,
Then cease they to adore us :
The goddess finks to housewife Moll,
And they reign tyrants o'er us.
Then let no man impression make
Upon thy heart so tender,
Or play the fool for pity's fake,
Thy quiet to surrender.
in hell! there's no such thing,
Thole tales are made to fool us,
Though there we had better hold a ftring,
Than here let monkies rule us.
The appla se bestowed on the Rofciad, will, we imagine, render the follora
ing extracts from it agreeable. They are fuch, we presume, as therw that the author unites the judgment of a critic with the fire and fancy of a poct,
- Character of Mrs, Cibber.
ORM'D for the tragic scene, ta grace the stage,
With rival exçeilence of love and rage,
Mistress of each loft heart, with matchless (kill,
Tourn and wind the paifions as she will;
To melt the heart with sympathetic woe,
Awake the figh, and teach the tear to flow;
To put on frenzy's wild distracted' glare,
And freeze the foal with horror and despair;
With just defert enroll'd in endless fame,
Conscious of worth fuperior, C-bb-r came.
When poor Alicia's madding brains are rack'd,
And strongly imag'd griets her mind distract ;
Struck with her grief, I catch the madness too!
My brain turns round, the headless trunk I view !
The roof cracks, shakes, and falls ! New horrors rise,
And reason buried in the ruin lies,
Nobly disdainful of each slavish art,
She makes her first attack upon the heart :
Pleas'd with the summons, it receives her laws,
And all is silence, sympathy, applause.
But when, by fond ambition drawn aside,
Giddy with praise, and puff'd with female pride,
She quits che tragic scene, and, in pretence
To comic merit, breaks down nature's fence ;
I scarcely can believe my ears or eyes,
Or find out C-bb-r through the dark disguise.
Mrs. Pritchard from the same.
RITCHARD, by nature for the stage design'd,
In person graceful, and in sense refin'd;
Her art as much as nature's friend became,
Her voice as free from blemish as her fame.
Who knows fo well in majesty to please,
Attemper’d with the graceful charms of ease ?
When Congreve's favour'd pantomime to grace,
She comes a captive queen of Moorish race;
When love, hate, jealousy, despair and rage,
With wildest tamults in her breast engage;
Still equal to herself is Zara seen ;
Her paffions are the paffions of a queen.
When she to murther whets the tim'rous thane,
I feel ambition rush through ev'ry vein ;
Persuafion hangs upon her daring tongue,
My heart grows flint, and ev'ry nerve's new strung,
In comedy, Nay, there,” cries critic, hold,
Pritchard's for comedy too fat and old.
Who can, with patience, bear the grey coquette,
Or force a laugh with over-grown Julett?
Her speech, look, action, humour, all are just,
But then her age and figure give disgust.
Are foibles then, and graces of the mind,
In real life, to size or age confin'd ?
Do spirits flow, and is good-breeding placed
any set circumference of waist ?
As we grow old, doth affectation cease,
Or gives not age new vigour to caprice?
If in originals these things appear,
Why should we bar them in the copy here?