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O Swains, to MODESTY's fair daughters turn:

By mental beauty let your hearts be led : Bid by your flight the venal FAIR-ONE mourn,

And press in tears her solitary bed.

When round your neck her fondling arms she glues,

And, bent to please, exhausts each winning art; With false delights she shamefully subdues,

And leads the Passions captive, not the heart.

Their midnight orgies whilst they madly hold,

I of a tender Maid shall be possess’d: What bliss her tender beauties to enfold,

And soothe my slumbers on her faithful breast !

Time from ber bosom all its snows may steal,

His iron hand her cheek's pure blush invade ; Still to my JULIA will I fondly kneel,

And love her most when all her roses fade.

Who spurns the weeping FAIR-ONE from his

breast, Hard is his heart—in ev'ry virtue poor: Hard is his heart to wound the fair DistrEST,

Who sighs that she can charm his eye no more.

arms:

Cruel to bid with grief her bosom heave,

Because her cheek no longer glowing warms: Base, to forget the joys her beauty gave

And, oh, forget it faded in his arms !

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From her, whose ev'ry smile is love,

I haste to some far distant cell: My sighs too weak the Maid to move,

I bid the flatterer Hope farewell.

Yet, as I quit her vale, my sighs

At ev'ry step for Julia mourn; My anxious heart within me dies,

And, panting, whispers, “ O return."

Deluded heart! thy folly know,

Nor fondly nurse a fatal flame : By absence thou wilt lose thy woe,

And only futter at her name.

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O Summer, thy presence gives warmth to the

vale; The song of the warbler enlivens the groves ; The pipe of the shepherd, too, gladdens the gale:

Alas! but I hear not the voice of my love.

The lilies appear in their fairest array;

To the vallies the woodbine's a fragrance impart; The roses the pride of their blushes display ;

Alas! but I ineet not the nymph of my heart.

Go, shepherds, and bring the sweet wanderer here,

The boast of her sex, and delight of the swains ; Go, zephyr, and whisper this truth in her ear, That the Pleasures with Julia are fled

from the plains.

If thus to the maid thou my wishes declare,

To the cot she has left she will quickly return; Too soft is her bosom to give us despair,

That sooner would sigh than mother's should

mourn.

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ON JCIIA.

Ere 'witching Love my heart possest,

And bade my sighs the nymph pursue ; Calm as the infant's smiling rest,

No anxious hope nor fear it knew.

But doom’d, ah! doom'd at last to mourn,

What tumults in that heart arose ! An ocean tumbling wild, and torn

By tempests from its deep repose.

Yet let me not the virgin blame,

As though she wish'd my heart despair ; How could the maid suspect a flame,

Who never knew that she was fair ?

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