JEALOUSY.

I.

A palace that is more uneasy far,
Than those of cruelty and absence are ;-
There constant show'rs of hail and rain do flow,
Continual murmuring winds around do blow,
Eternal thunder rolling in the air,

And thick dark hanging clouds the day obscure,
Whose sullen dawn all objects multiplies,
And renders things that are not to the eyes.
Phantoms appear by the dull gloomy light,
That with such subtle art elude the sight,
That one can see no object true or right.
1 here transported and uneasy grow,
And all things out of order do;
Hasty and peevish every thing I say,
Suspicion and distrust my passions sway,
And bend all nature their uneasy way.
A thousand serpents gnaw the heart,—
A thousand visions fill the eyes,—
And deaf to all that can relief impart,
We hate the councils of the wise,
And sense like tales of lunatics despise.

THE CITY OF LOVE.

In this vast isle a famous city stands,
Which for its beauty all the rest commands;
Built to delight the wond'ring gazer's eyes,
Of all the world the great metropolis.

Call'd by Love's name, and here the charming god,
When he retires to pleasure, makes abode.

'Tis here both art and nature strive, to shew What pride, expence, and luxury can do, To make it ravishing and awful too.

All nations hourly thither do resort,

To add fresh splendour to this glorious court;
The young, the old, the witty, and the wise,
The fair, the ugly, lavish, and precise;
Cowards and brave, the modest, and the loud,
Promiscuously are mingled in the crowd.

From distant shores young kings their courts remove
To pay their homage to the god of Love;
Where all their sacred awful majesty,
Their boasted and their fond divinity,

Lose their vast force,-as lesser lights are hid
When the fierce god of day his beauties spread.
The wondering world for gods did kings adore,
'Till Love confirm'd them mortal by his power;
And in Love's court they with their vassals live,
Without or homage, or prerogative:

Which the young god not only blind must shew,
But as defective in his judgment too.

Midst the gay court, a famous temple stands,
Old as the universe which it commands ;

For mighty Love a sacred being had,

Whil'st yet 'twas chaos, ere the world was made,
And nothing was compos'd without his aid.
Agreeing atoms by his power were hurl'd,
And love and harmony compos'd the world.
'Tis rich, 'tis solemn all! divine, yet gay!
From the gemm'd roof the dazzling lights display,
And all below inform without the aid of day.
All nations hither bring their offerings,
And 'tis endow'd with gifts of love-sick kings,

Upon an altar whose unbounded store
Has made the rifled universe so poor,
Adorn'd with all the treasures of the seas,
More than the sun in his vast course surveys,—
Was plac'd the god! with every beauty form'd,
Of smiling youth, but naked, unadorn'd.
His painted wings display'd, his bow laid by,
For here love needs not his artillery ;-
One of his little hands aloft he bore,

And grasp'd a wounded heart that burnt all o'er,
Towards which he look'd with lovely laughing eyes,
As pleas'd and vain with the fond sacrifice;
The other pointed downward, seem'd to say,
"Here at my feet your grateful victims lay:"
Whilst on a golden tablet o'er his head,
In diamond characters this motto stood
"Behold the

power that conquers every god!”

THE BOWER OF BLISS.

I.

"Tis all eternal spring around,

And all the trees with fragrant flowers are crown'd.
No clouds, no misty showers obscure the light,
But all is calm, serene and gay,

The heavens are drest in a perpetual bright,
And all the earth with everlasting May.
Each minute blows the rose and jessamine,
And twines with new-born eglantine;
Each minute new discoveries bring,

Of something sweet, of something ravishing.

II.

Fountains, wandering brooks, soft rills,
That o'er the wanton pebbles play;

And all the woods with tender murmuring fills,
Inspiring love-inciting joy,

The sole the solemn business of the day. Through all the groves the glades and thickets run, And nothing see but love on all their banks along : A thousand flowers of different kinds,

The neighbouring meads adorn,

Whose sweetness snatch'd by flying winds
O'er all the bower of bliss is borne ;
Whither all things in nature strive to bring,
All that is soft, all that is ravishing.

III.

The verdant banks no other prints retain,

But where young lovers and young loves have lain. For love has nothing here to do,

But to be wanton, soft and gay,

And give a lavish loose to joy;

His emptied quiver and his bow

In flow'ry wreaths with rosy garlands crown'd, In myrtle shades are hung,

As conquerors when the victory's won

Dispose their glorious trophies all aroundSoft winds and echoes that do haunt each grove, Still whisper and repeat no other songs than love, Which round about the sacred bower they sing.Where every thing arrives that's sweet and ravishing.

One of the latest, perhaps the very last of Aphra Behn's productions, is a little Ode, now before the

writer, with the following title:"A Pindaric Poem to the Reverend Doctor Burnet, on the honour he did me of enquiring after me and my muse, by Mrs. A. Behn, London, 1689.” Doctor Burnet and Mrs. Aphra Behn! Socrates after meditating and teaching wisdom all the day, retired in the evening to enjoy the society, the wit, the accomplishments, and the beauty of the divine Aspasia. Why might not the British sage "enquire after" the "incomparable," the "excellent," the "lovely," the "witty" Astrea,*

"Whose wit would recommend the homeliest face,
Whose beauty make the dollest humour please.”

There is however something ludicrous in the grave divine, historian, and future bishop, enquiring after Mrs. A. Behn and her wanton muse,

That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist.

Unless we might in charity suppose that this dignified personage, who had been so successful in converting the reprobate Earl of Rochester, wished to extend the sphere of his usefulness, by attempting to make a convert of Mrs. Behn also; but if we may judge from the poem itself, this could not be the object he had in view by his enquiry:-What says the lady?

Till now my careless muse no higher strove
To enlarge her glory and extend her wings,
Than underneath Parnassus groye,
To sing of shepherds and their humble love;
But never durst like Cowley tune her strings
To sing of heroes and of kings.

But since by an authority divine,

She is allowed a more exalted thought; She will be valued now as current coin, Whose stamp alone gives it the estimate Though out of an inferior metal made.

*All these epithets were lavished on Mrs. Behn by her contemporaries.