Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, 8 Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile? 9 How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return! While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn: Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, And rest so much longer for 't when she is here. Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay, Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. 10 Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; ODE TO A TOBACCO-PIPE. Little tube of mighty power, Incense of the god of wine. AWAY! LET NOUGHT TO LOVE DISPLEASING. 1 Away! let nought to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care; Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 2 What though no grants of royal donors, With pompous titles grace our blood; We'll shine in more substantial honours, And, to be noble, we'll be good. 3 Our name while virtue thus we tender, 4 What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, 5 Still shall each kind returning season 6 Through youth and age, in love excelling, 7 How should I love the pretty creatures, RICHARD BENTLEY'S SOLE POETICAL COMPOSITION. 1 Who strives to mount Parnassus' hill, 2 Who Nature's treasures would explore, Her mysteries and arcana know, Must high as lofty Newton soar, Must stoop as delving Woodward low. 3 Who studies ancient laws and rites, 4 Who travels in religious jars, (Truth mixed with error, shades with rays,) Like Whiston, wanting pyx or stars, In ocean wide or sinks or strays. 5 But grant our hero's hope, long toil And comprehensive genius crown, All sciences, all arts his spoil, Yet what reward, or what renown? 6 Envy, innate in vulgar souls, Envy steps in and stops his rise; Envy with poisoned tarnish fouls His lustre, and his worth decries. 7 He lives inglorious or in want, To college and old books confined: Instead of learned, he's called pedant; Dunces advanced, he 's left behind: Yet left content, a genuine Stoic he, LINES ADDRESSED TO POPE.1 1 While malice, Pope, denies thy page While critics and while bards in rage 2 While wayward pens thy worth assail, These times, though many a friend bewail, 3 But when the world's loud praise is thine, 4 When none shall rail, and every lay That day (for come it will) that day 1 Written by one Lewis, a schoolmaster, and highly commended by Johnson.See Boswell. THE END. |