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Then Venus speaks ; the wavering flames retire, And Zephyr's breath extinguishes the fire. At length the Goddess in the helmet's round A sweet and subtile spirit duly found; Mo foft than oil, than æther more refin'd, Of power to cure the woes of womankind, Anu cali'd it FLATTERY :--balm of female life ! It charms alike the widow, maid, and wife ; Clears the sad brow of virgins in despair, And smooths the cruel traces left by care, Bids palsy'd age with youthful Spirit glow, And hangs May's garlands on December's snow. Delicious effence ! howsoe'er apply'd, i By what rude nature is thy charm deny'd ? Some form seducing still thy whisper wears, Stern Wisdom turns to thee her willing ears, And Prudery listens, and forgets her fears. The rustic nymph, whom rigid aunts restrain, Condemn'd to dress, and practise airs in vain, At thy first summons finds her bofom swell, And bids her crabbed governantes farewel : While, fir’d by thee, with spirit not her own, She grows a toast, and rises into ton. The faded beauty, who, with secret pain, Sees younger charms usurp her envy'd reign, By thee asided, can with smiles behold The record where her conquests are enrollid; And dwelling yet on scenes by memory nurs’d, When George the Second reign'd, or George the First; She sees the shades of ancient beaux arise, Who swear her eyes exceeded modern eyes, When poets sung for her, and lovers bled, And giddy fashion follow'd as she led,
Departed modes appear in long array,
DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be
dead, To fair Fidele's grassy tomb,
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring . Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring. No wailing ghost shall dáre appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; But thepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No witherid witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempest shake thy sylvan cell ; Or ’midst the chace on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell: Each lonely scene fhali thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed; Belov'd, till life can charm no more ;
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.
How feep the brave, who fink to rest
There Honour comes, a pilgrim'grey,
TO EVENING IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own folemn springs
Thy springs, and dying gales ; O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd fun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed : Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shriek Aits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
To breathe some soften'd strain,
As, mufing flow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return!
The fragrant hours, and elves
Who Nept in buds the day,
The penfive pleasures sweet
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
That from the mountain's fide
Views wilds and swelling floods,
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing trefies, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;
Affrights thy shrinking train,
Thy gentlest influence own,