SULPICIA TO CERINTHUS.
I'm weary of this tedious dull deceit;
Myself I torture, while the world I cheat:
Though Prudence bids me strive to guard my fame,
Love sees the low hypocrisy with shame;
Love bids me all confess, and call thee mine,
Worthy my heart, as I am worthy thine:
Weakness for thee I will no longer hide;
Weakness for thee is woman's noblest pride.
CATO'S SPEECH TO LABIENUS.
IN THE NINTH BOOK OF LUCAN.
(Quid quæri, Labiene, jubes, &c.)
WHAT, Labienus, would thy fond desire
Of horned Jove's prophetic shrine inquire?
Whether to seek in arms a glorious doom,
Or basely live, and be a king in Rome?
If life be nothing more than death's delay;
If impious force can honest minds dismay,
Or Probity may Fortune's frown disdain;
If well to mean is all that Virtue can;
And right, dependant on itself alone,
Gains no addition from success?-Tis known:
Fix'd in my heart these constant truths I bear,
And Ammon cannot write them deeper there.
Our souls, allied to God, within them feel
The secret dictates of the' Almighty will;
This is his voice, be this our oracle.
When first his breath the seeds of life instill'd,
All that we ought to know was then reveal'd.
Nor can we think the Omnipresent mind
Has truth to Libya's desert sands confin'd;
There, known to few, obscur'd and lost, to lie-'
Is there a temple of the Deity,
Except earth, sea, and air, yon azure pole;
And chief his holiest shrine, the virtuous soul?
Where'er the eye can pierce, the feet can move,
This wide, this boundless universe is Jove.
Let abject minds, that doubt because they fear,
With pious awe to juggling priests repair;
I credit not what lying prophets tell-
Death is the only certain oracle!
Cowards and brave must die one destin'd hour-
This Jove has told; he needs not tell us more.
IN IMITATION OF PASTOR FIDO.
(O primavera gioventu del anno.)
WRITTEN ABROAD. 1729.
PARENT of blooming flowers and gay desires, Youth of the tender year, delightful Spring! At whose approach, inspir'd with equal fires, The amorous Nightingale and Poet sing:
Again dost thou return, but not with thee
Return the smiling hours I once possess'd; Blessings thou bring'st to others, but to me
The sad remembrance that I once was bless'd.
Thy faded charms, which Winter snatch'd away,
Renew'd in all their former lustre shine;
But, ah! no more shall hapless I be gay,
Or know the vernal joys that have been mine.
Though linnets sing, though flowers adorn the green, Though on their wings soft zephyrs fragrance bear;
Harsh is the music, joyless is the scene
The odour faint: for Delia is not there!
Cheerless and cold I feel the genial sun,
From thee while absent I in exile rove;
Thy lovely presence, fairest light, alone
Can warm my heart to gladness and to love,
TO MISS LUCY FORTESCUE.
ONCE, by the Muse alone inspir'd,
I sung my amorous strains:
No serious love my bosom fir'd;
Yet every tender maid, deceiv'd,
The idly-mournful tale believ'd,
And wept my fancied pains.
But Venus now, to punish me
For having feign'd so well,
Has made my heart so fond of thee,
That not the whole Aönian choir
Can accents soft enough inspire,
Its real flame to tell.
WITH HAMMOND'S ELEGIES.
ALL that of Love can be express'd
In these soft numbers see;
But, Lucy, would you know the rest,
It must be read in me.
To him who in an hour must die,
Not swifter seems that hour to fly,
Than slow the minutes seem to me,
Which keep me from the sight of thee.
Not more that trembling wretch would give
Another day or year to live;
Than I to shorten what remains
Of that long hour which thee detains.
Oh! come to my impatient arms,
Oh! come, with all thy heavenly charms,
At once to justify and pay
The pain I feel from this delay.
To ease my troubled mind of anxious care,
Last night the secret casket I explor'd,
Where all the letters of my absent fair
(His richest treasure) careful Love had stor❜d:
In every word a magic spell I found
Of power to charm each busy thought to rest; Though every word increas'd the tender wound Of fond desire still throbbing in my breast.
So to his hoarded gold the miser steals,
And loses every sorrow at the sight;
Yet wishes still for more, nor ever feels
Entire contentment, or secure delight.
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