My softest verse, my darling lyre,

Upon Euphelia's toilet lay,

When Chloe noted her desire

That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,

But with my numbers mix my sighs;
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.

Fair Chloe blush'd; Euphelia frown'd:
I sung and gazed; I play'd and trembled:
And Venus, to the Loves around,

Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.

THE GARLAND.

THE pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,

The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.

At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place
Upon her brow the various wreath ;
The flowers less blooming than her face,

The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flowers she wore along the day,

And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they looked more gay Than glowing in their native bed.

Undress'd at evening, when she found Their odours lost, their colours pass'd, She changed her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak; When from its lid a pearly tear

Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well,

"My love, my life, (said I,) explain

This change of humour; prythee tell,

That falling tear-what does it mean?"

She sigh'd; she smil'd; and to the flowers Pointing, the lovely moralist said,

"See, friend, in some few fleeting hours, See yonder what a change is made!

"Ah me! the bloming pride of May
And that of Beauty are but one;
At morn both flourish, bright and gay,

Both fade at evening, pale and gone.

"At dawn poor Stella danced and sung, The amorous youth around her bow'd; At night her fatal knell was rung;

I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud.

"Such as she is who died to-day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow:
Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow."

JOHN GAY,

Born 1688, died 1732

SONG.

'Twas when the seas were roaring

With hollow blasts of wind,

A damsel lay deploring,

All on a rock reclined:

Wide o'er the foaming billows
She cast a wistful look ;-
Her head was crowned with willows,
That trembled o'er the brook.

"Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days;
Why didst thou, venturous lover,

Why didst thou trust the seas?

Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,
And let a lover rest;

Ah! what's thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?

"The merchant, robbed of pleasure, Views tempests in despair;

But what's the loss of treasure

To losing of my dear?

Should you some coast be laid on,
Where gold and diamonds grow,
You may find some richer maiden,
But none that loves you so.

"How can they say that Nature
Has nothing made in vain?
Why, then, beneath the water
Do hideous rocks remain ?
No eyes those rocks discover,
That lurk beneath the deep,
To wreck the wandering lover,
And leave the maid to weep."

All melancholy lying,

Thus wailed she for her dear, Repaid each blast with sighing,

Each billow with a tear; When o'er the white waves stooping,

His floating corpse she spied;

Then, like a lily drooping,

She bow'd her head, and died.

WILLIAM SOMERVILLE,

Born 1692, died 1742.

THE SUPERANNUATED LOVER

DEAD to the soft delights of love,
Spare me! O spare me, cruel boy!
Nor seek in vain that heart to move,
Which pants no more with amorous joy.

Of old, thy faithful hardy swain,

(When smit with fair Pastora's charms,) I served thee many a long campaign, And wide I spread thy conquering arm›.

Now, mighty god! dismiss thy slave,
To feeble age let youth succeed;
Recruit among the strong and brave,
And kindly spare an invalid.

Adieu, fond hopes, fantastic cares !
Ye killing joys, ye pleasing pains!
My soul for better guests prepares;
Reason restored, and Virtue reigns.

* An imitation of Horace, Lib. IV. Carm. 1.