JEALOUSY. I. A palace that is more uneasy far, And thick dark hanging clouds the day obscure, THE CITY OF LOVE. In this vast isle a famous city stands, Call'd by Love's name, and here the charming god, '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; From distant shores young kings their courts remove Lose their vast force,-as lesser lights are hid Which the young god not only blind must shew, Midst the gay court, a famous temple stands, For mighty Love a sacred being had, Whil'st yet 'twas chaos, ere the world was made, Upon an altar whose unbounded store And grasp'd a wounded heart that burnt all o'er, 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. The heavens are drest in a perpetual bright, Of something sweet, of something ravishing. II. Fountains, wandering brooks, soft rills, And all the woods with tender murmuring fills, 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 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, 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 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. |