These forms with horror fill'd my aching breast,
And from my eyelids drove the balm of rest:
I woke, and found old night her course had run,
And left her empire to the rising sun.
SYLVANUS, a Courtier; PHILLIS, a Country Maide
HAIL, Phillis, brighter than a morning sky,
Joy of my heart, and darling of my eye;
See the kind year her grateful tribute yields,
And round-fac'd Plenty triumphs o'er the fields.
But to yon gardens let me lead thy charms,
Where the curl'd vine extends her willing arms,
Whose purple clusters lure the longing eye,
And the ripe cherries shew their scarlet dye.
Not all the sights your boasted gardens yield,
Are half so lovely as my father's field,
Where large increase has bless'd the fruitful plain, And we with joy behold the swelling grain, Whose heavy ears towards the earth reclin'd, Wave, nod, and tremble to the whisking wind.
But see, to emulate those cheeks of thine,
On yon fair tree the blushing nect'rins shine;
Beneath their leaves the rosy peaches glow,
And the plump figs compose a gallant show.
With gaudy plums see yonder boughs recline,
And ruddy pears in yon espalier twine.
There humble dwarfs in pleasing order stand,
Whose golden product seems to court thy hand.
In vain you tempt me while our orchard bears
Long-keeping russets, lovely Cath'rine pears,
Pearmains and codlings, wheaten plums enow,
And the black damsons load the bending bough.
No pruning knives our fertile branches teaze,
While yours must grow but as their masters please.
The grateful trees our mercy well repay,
And rain us bushels at the rising day.
Fair are my gardens, yet you slight them all;
Then let us haste to yon majestic hall,
Where the glad roofs shall to thy voice resound,
Thy voice more sweet than music's melting sound:
Orion's beam infests the sultry sky,
And scorching fevers thro' the welkin fly;
But art shall teach us to evade his ray,
And the forc'd fountains near the windows play;
There choice perfumes shall give a pleasing gale,
And orange-flowers their odorous breath exhale;
While on the walls the well-wrought paintings
glow,
And dazzling carpets deck the floors below:
O tell me, thou whose careless beauties charm,
Are these not fairer than a thresher's barn?
Believe me, I can find no charms at all
In your fine carpets, and your painted hall.
'Tis true our parlour has an earthen floor,
The sides of plaster, and of elm the door :
Yet the rubb'd chest and table sweetly shines,
And the spread mint along the window climbs:
An aged laurel keeps away the sun,
And two cool streams across the garden run.
Can feasts or music win my lovely maid?
In both those pleasures be her taste obey'd.
The ransack'd earth shall all its dainties send,
Till with its load her plenteous table bend.
Then to the roofs the swelling notes shall rise,
Pierce the glad air, and gain upon the skies,
While ease and rapture spreads itself around, And distant hills roll back the charming sound.
Not this will lure me, for I'd have you know,
This night to feast with Corydon I go:
To night his reapers bring the gather'd grain
Home to his barns, and leave the naked plain:
Then beef and coleworts, beans and bacon too,
And the plum-pudding of delicious hue,
Sweet-spiced cake, and apple-pies good store,
Deck the brown board, and who can wish for more?
His flute and tabor too Amyntor brings,
And while he plays soft Amaryllis sings.
Then strive no more to win a simple maid,
From her lov'd cottage, and her silent shade;
Let Phillis ne'er, ah! never let her rove
From her first virtue, and her humble grove.
Go, seek some nymph that equals your degree,
And leave content and Corydon for me.
Was the daughter of a Scotch gentleman, Captain David Trotter. She wrote philosophical and theological treatises, plays, poems, &c.
Song-the Vain Advice.
Ан, gaze not on those eyes! forbear
That soft, enchanting voice to hear:
Not looks of basilisks give surer death,
Nor Syrens sing with more destructive breath.
Fly, if thy freedom thou 'dst maintain ;
Alas! I feel, th' advice is vain!
A heart, whose safety but in flight does lie,
Is too far lost to have the power to fly.
SOFT kisses may be innocent;
But ah! too easy maid, beware;
Tho' that is all thy kindness meant,
'Tis love's delusive, fatal snare.
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