Then lovely Nature is expell'd, And Friendship is romantic held; Then Prudence comes with hundred eyes: The Veil is rent: the Vision flies. The dear Illusions will not last; The æra of Enchantment's past; The wild Romance of Life is done; The real History is begun. The Sallies of the Soul are o'er, The Feast of Fancy is no more; And ill the banquet is supply'd By form, by gravity, by pride. Ye Gods! whatever ye withhold, Let my affections ne'er grow old; Still Still may the generous bosom burn, Tho' doom'd to bleed o'er Beauty's urn; And still the friendly face appear, Tho' moisten'd with a tender tear! Y E Virgins! fond to be admir'd, With mighty rage of conquest fir'd, And universal sway; Who heave th' uncover'd bosom high, On all the circle gay! You miss the fine and fecret art To win the castle of the heart, For which you all contend; The coxcomb tribe may crowd your train, But you will never, never gain A lover, or a friend. J If If this your paffion, this your praise, To shine, to dazzle, and to blaze, You may be call'd divine : But not a youth beneath the sky Will say in secret, with a figh, "O were that Maiden mine!* You marshal, brilliant, from the box, Fans, feathers, diamonds, castled locks, Your magazine of arms; But 'tis the sweet sequester'd walk, The whispering hour, the tender talk, The nymph-like robe, the natural grace, The smile, the native of the face, Refinement without art; The eye where pure affection beams, The The trembling frame, the living cheek, Where, like the morning, blushes break To crimfon o'er the breast; The look where sentiment is feen, Fine paffions moving o'er the mien, Your beauties these: with these you shine, And reign on high by right divine, The fovereigns of the world; Then to your court the nations flow; The Muse with flowers the path will strew, Where Venus' car is hurl'd. From dazzling deluges of snow, From Summer noon's meridian glow, We turn our aking eye, To Nature's robe of vernal green, To the blue curtain all ferene, Of an Autumnal sky. The |