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ANACREON,

ODE IV. TRANSLATED.

ON beds of tender myrtles laid,
Or melelot, supinely, spread,

I'll quaff the bowl; and, neatly dressed,
Young Cupid shall direct the feast.
Come! fill the bumper to the brim,
And heave away this load of time.
This little wheel of vital day
Shall shortly roll itself away;

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IN ANSWER TO

A LETTER FROM DELIA.

TWICE has the winter vexed the main,
And twice the summer parched the plain,
Since, absent from his Delia's eyes,
Remote the hapless poet sighs,
And sees the joyless seasons roll,

7 Far from the charmer of his soul.

In vain, to shroud thee from my eyes,

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In all the light of beauty move.] "Of Evirallin were my thoughts, when in all the light of beauty she came." Vol. i. p. 125. But the whole series of unappropriated poems, in Blacklock's Collection, is evidently the composition of the same author; and that author is undoubtedly Macpherson. The Cave alone had too much merit not to have been claimed, had it been written by any other than the father of Ossian. The very next poems, after this series in Blacklock's Collection, ADELA, and MORNA, were printed anonymously, as if by the same author; but in

Again her charms my soul surprise,
I feel the lightning of her eyes;
Her marble neck, her hair behold
Like winding tides of melted gold;
Still on her cheek the roses glow,

Still swells her breast of heaving snow.
The vision flies, delusive all!

From what a height poor mortals fall!
I wake to care-My fair no more

I see;-The winds around me roar;

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Cold showers from sullen skies descend,
And storms the lofty forest rend;
I fly the tempest-leave the plain,
But oh! from love I fly in vain.

In crowds would I dissolve my care,

The peace I seek, I find not there.
My absent fair one prompts my sighs,
And calls the tears from both my eyes;
My heart beats thick against my side,
More swiftly rolls the crimson tide;
I sweat, I pant, my ears resound,
And vision dimly swims around.
I pine, I languish in my pain,
And scarce does half the man remain.

I eye the maids, the soft and gay,
And wish to look my soul away;
With other objects to supply

The fair, the adverse fates deny;

Ill were my fair by them supplied,

Their form disgusts, but more their pride.
With haughty sneer they seem to say,

Away, dull impudence! away!

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the second volume, bad as they are, they were carefully assigned to the Honourable Andrew Erskine.

You look, you sigh, and weep in vain;
Go; woo some trull upon the plain.
With conscious shame I blush, I glow;
My Delia would not use me so-

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A packet!-'tis my Delia's handWhat would my lovely maid command ?

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Am I my fair-one's tender care ?

Love me!-What would you love, my dear?

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Nor armed with lightning are my eyes:

Love me! what would you love, my dear?

A gen'rous heart-a mind sincere ;

A soul that fortune's frowns defies,

Nor flatters fools I must despise,

Is all I boast, my charming fair!

Love me!-what would you love, my dear!

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