Say, wretched Fancy, thus refined
From all that glads the simplest hind,
How rare that object which supplies
A charm for too discerning eyes!

The polish'd bard, of genius vain,
Endures a deeper sense of pain;
As each invading blast devours
The richest fruits, the fairest flowers.

Sages, with irksome waste of time,
The steep ascent of knowledge climb;
Then, from the towering heights they scale,
Behold Contentment range—the vale.

Yet why, Asteria, tell us why

We scorn the crowd, when you are nigh?
Why then does Reason seem so fair,
Why Learning then deserve our care?
Who can unpleased your shelves behold,
While you so fair a proof unfold,
What force the brightest genius draws
From polish'd Wisdom's written laws?
Where are our humbler tenets flown?
What strange perfection bids us own,
That bliss with toilsome Science dwells;
And happiest he who most excels?

ANACREONTIC. 1738.

"TWAS in a cool Aonian glade

That wanton Cupid, spent with toil, Had sought refreshment from the shade, And stretch'd him on the mossy soil,

A vagrant Muse drew nigh, and found
The subtle traitor fast asleep;
And is it thine to snore profound,

(She said) yet leave the world to weep? 'But hush-from this auspicious hour The world, I ween, may rest in peace; And robb'd of darts, and stripp'd of power, Thy peevish petulance decrease.

'Sleep on, poor child! whilst I withdraw,
And this thy vile artillery hide-'
When the Castalian fount she saw,
And plunged his arrows in the tide.
That magic fount-ill-judging maid!
Shall cause you soon to curse the day
You dared the shafts of Love invade,
And gave his arms redoubled sway.
For in a stream so wondrous clear,
When angry Cupid searches round,
Will not the radiant points appear?
Will not the furtive spoils be found?
Too soon they were; and every dart,
Dipp'd in the Muses' mystic spring,
Acquired new force to wound the heart,
And taught at once to love and sing.
Then farewell, ye Pierian quire!

For who will now your altars throng?
From Love we learn to swell the lyre,
And Echo asks no sweeter song,

WRITTEN 1739.

Urit spes animi creduli mutui.

Fond hope of a reciprocal desire
Inflames the breast.

HOR.

"TWAS not by Beauty's aid alone
That Love usurp'd his airy throne,
His boasted power display'd;
"Tis kindness that secures his aim,
"Tis Hope that feeds the kindling flame,
Which Beauty first convey'd.

In Clara's eyes the lightnings view;
Her lips with all the rose's hue

Have all its sweets combined;
Yet vain the blush, and faint the fire,
Till lips at once, and eyes, conspire
To prove the charmer kind.

Though Wit might gild the tempting snare With softest accent, sweetest air,

By Envy's self admired;

If Lesbia's wit betray'd her scorn,
In vain might every Grace adorn
What every Muse inspired.

Thus airy Strephon tuned his lyre—
He scorn'd the pangs of wild desire,
Which love-sick swains endure;
Resolved to brave the keenest dart,
Since frowns could never wound his heart,
And smiles-must ever cure.