Th' infectious sigh, the glist'ning tear-
Each symptom of a love sincere

He fervently display'd:

What maid could arts like these withstand?

Or coldly spurn his offered hand?

Or fear to be betray'd?

Scarce had my eyes the flame confest,

His arts implanted in my breast,

Ere from my love he flies;
Pleads pre-engagement;—while in vain
I strive my wonted peace to gain;
For love that peace denies.

Ah, Damon, cause of all

my woes,

Why not the fatal tale disclose,

Before it was too late?

Why strive my tender heart to gain?
Sure he who joys in giving pain,
Deserves the harshest fate.

Soon must remorse thy bosom tear,
When conscience whispers in thine ear,
(And conscience soon will speak)
What torturing pangs Flavilla feels,
What numerous, undeserved ills,
She bears for Damon's sake!

And ye, his faithless sex, intent

To sport with feelings nature meant

For solace here below;

Ah, think what torments she must prove,
Who feels the force of hapless love!

Life's bitterest source of woe.

Should some fair maid your vows have charm'd,

Your soft endearing stories warm'd,

An artless passion shew,

Her fears dispel; her bliss secure;
Nor trifle with a flame so pure;
Nor Damon's paths pursue.

TIME-AN ELEGY,

ON VIEWING THE RUINS OF BOLTON CASTLE.

DESTRUCTIVE Time! whose wonder-working pow'r,

Each object here my wond'ring eye surveys, Each moss-clad wall, each mutilated tow'r, In clear, expressive characters displays;

What human arts, or efforts, can withstand
Thy silent influence, or thy force restrain ?
Cities and empires sink at thy command,
And feel their boasted strength, their grandeur,

vain.

The trophied column, marble-sculptur❜d tomb, The lofty tow'rs that seem'd to brave the sky, The princely palace, and th' aspiring dome, Sapp'd by thy ruthless hand, in ruins lie.

Why not on these alone thy might employ?
Ah! why delight to blast, with fatal art,
The fairest blossoms of terrestrial joy,

And mock the wishes of the human heart?

Oft I, tho' few my years, thy pow'r have prov'd,
And wept in silence thy resistless sway:

Fled are the pleasing hours of youth belov'd,
And all its guiltless joys, to thee a prey!

Full many a rapt'rous bliss, which fancy gave,
Full many a flatt'ring hope dispell'd, I mourn;
Full many a friend, snatch'd to the darksome
grave.

By thee, relentless! never to return.

Should heav'n to hoary age my years extend,

What future ills life's varied path must strew!

What poignant grief, what sighs, this bosom

rend,

To filial duty, love, or friendship due!

But meek Religion lends her soothing aid,
The warring tumults of my mind to calm;
Bids resignation every thought pervade,

And pours into my wounds her healing balm.

She bids my soul to heav'nly joys aspire,
And far beyond thy bounded empire soar,
Where full fruition shall prevent desire,

And care, and grief, and thou, be felt no more!

EPIGRAM ON A TALKATIVE BLOCKHEAD.

WHY, Florio, wish, to reason blind,

Heav'n with more sense had Tom supply'd;

Or else, in pity to mankind,

This endless flow of words deny'd?

No more, my friend, with weak pretence,
Arraign the wise decrees of heav'n :
Know, to supply the want of sense,
This endless flow of words was giv’n.

ACASTO.

WHEN dew-breathing Eve, in gray mantle array'd, O'er the world, with mild sceptre, her empire

resum'd;

When the moon's silver beams through the branches soft play'd,

And with modest effulgence the landscape il

lum'd;

Near yon brook which glides gently in murmurs

away,

Where vi'lets and daisies embroider the green,

In pastime forgetting the toils of the day,

The youth of the village disporting were seen.

Acasto, the hoary, for wisdom rever'd,

Whose precepts had long the rude villagers sway'd,

To all by attractive benevolence endear'd,

With silent attention their gambols survey'd; And oft as the loud vacant laugh caught his ear, The dew of compassion distill'd from his eye, He wip'd from his time-furrow'd cheek the warm tear,

Then lean'd on his staff, and thus spoke, with a sigh: