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,

THE fatal hours are wonderous n

That, from these fountains, bear my

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

A little space, 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 fee 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 laft embrace---

dear;

She

She comes-but ah! what crouds of beaux
In radiant bands my fair enclose;
Oh! better hadft thou fhun'd the green,
Oh DELIA! better far unseen.

Methinks, by all my tender fears,
By all my fighs, by all my tears,
I might from torture now be free-

'Tis more than death to part from thee !

VOL. 1.

M

SONG

SONG XI. 1744.

PERHAPS 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 polifh'd mind,
It needs no lover's eye to find;
The hermit freezing in his cell,
Might with the gentle FLAVIA well.

It is not love-averse 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 fhine
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;

defere

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, should Eastern kings advance;

Could I the pageant see :
fee:

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