From speech restrain'd, by thy deceits abus'd,
To deserts banish'd, or in cells reclus'd;,
Mistaken votaries to thy powers divine,
Whilst they a purer sacrifice design,

Do but the spleen obey, and worship at thy shrine.

In vain to chase thee every art we try,

In vain all remedies apply,

In vain the Indian leaf infuse,

Or the parch'd Eastern berry bruise;

Some pass in vain those bounds, and nobler liquors

use.

Now harmony in vain we bring,

Inspire the flute, and touch the string.

From harmony no help is had;

Music but soothes thee, if too sweetly sad,

And if too light, but turns thee gaily mad.
Tho' the physician's greatest gains,
Altho' his growing wealth he sees
Daily increas'd by ladies' fees,

Yet dost thou baffle all his studious pains.
Not skilful Lower thy source could find,

Or thro' the well-dissected body trace

The secret, the mysterious ways,

By which thou dost surprize, and prey upon the mind.

L

Tho' in the search, too deep for human thought, With unsuccessful toil he wrought,

Till thinking thee to've catch'd, himself by thee was caught,

Retain'd thy prisoner, thy acknowledg'd slave,

And sunk beneath thy chain to a lamented grave.

ESTHER VANHOMRIGH,

Born .... died 1721.

Swift's Vanessa.

Ode to Spring.

HAIL, blushing goddess, beauteous Spring!
Who, in thy jocund train dost bring
Loves and graces, smiling hours,
Balmy breezes, fragrant flowers;

Come, with tints of roseate hue,
Nature's faded charms renew.

Yet why should I thy presence hail?
To me no more the breathing gale
Comes fraught with sweets, no more the rose
With such transcendant beauty blows,

As when Cadenus blest the scene,
And shar'd with me those joys serene.
When, unperceived, the lambent fire
Of friendship kindled new desire;
Still listening to his tuneful tongue,
The truths which angels might have sung
Divine imprest their gentle sway,
And sweetly stole my soul away.

My guide, instructor, lover, friend,
Dear names, in one idea blend;
Oh! still conjoin'd, your incense rise,
And waft sweet odours to the skies.

RACHEL, LADY RUSSELL,

died 1723.

The admirable daughter of Southampton. She died in her 87th year.

To the Memory of her Husband.

RIGHT noble twice, by virtue and by birth,
Of Heaven lov'd, and honour'd on the earth;
His country's hope, his kindred's chief delight,
My husband dear, more than this world's light,
Death hath me reft. But I from death will take
His memory, to whom this tomb I make.
John was his name (ah was! wretch, must I say,)
Lord Russell once, now my tear-thirsty clay.