BY THE LATE OSMOND BEAUVOIR, LL.D.
WHEN by Stour's gentle current I breath'd the soft
To Chloe's sweet accents, Attention sat mute;
How charming its tone, as I swell'd the soft strain
To her voice, or return'd it in echoes again!
Little Cupid beat time, and the Graces around
Taught with even divisions to vary the sound.
From my Chloe remov'd when I bid it complain, And warble sweet numbers to soothe love-sick pain, How unmeaning its tone, as the rising notes grow! And the soft-falling measures insipidly flow!
I will play then no more; for 'tis her voice alone, Fills with raptures my soul, and enlivens the tone!
See Gent. Mag. Vol. LIX. p. 672, 761.
AND have I then planted the briars of Care
Where the roses of Pleasure should flourish alone?
Ah sure, when I wounded a bosom so fair,
Each tenderer feeling had fled from my own!
-No-they had not indeed-for I vow, I protest, By the shrine of those beauties so nearly divine, That the tortures I heedlessly gave to her breast, Pierc'd deeper, and sharper, and keener to mine.
How I started when tears filled her soft flowing eyes
Like diamonds of dew, on the forehead of day.
And oh! how I wish'd that my amorous sighs,
Like the panting of Zephyr, could kiss them away.
Yet she could not be angry-she could not, I know,
Did she see how forlorn, how dejected I lie;
How round me the night breezes chillily blow,
How fast fall the dews from the comfortless sky!
* Whom the author had offended by the accidental revival of some melancholy recollections.
And, I'm sure, could she guess half the sorrow I felt, Not a shade of resentment could tincture her mind. But her bosom would learn in compassion to melt, And pardon offence, which I never design'd.
And I'm sure that a being so soft and so pure,
Could forgive in a moment, though vex'd for awhile.
And I'm sure-no, I'm not-but I wish I were sure,
That my song will be paid-by a sweet little smile!
WHILE thus my thoughts their softest sense express,
And strive to make the tedious hours seem less;
Say, shall these lines the name I hide impart,
And point their author to my Cynthia's heart?
Will she by correspondent friendship own,
A verse the muse directs to her alone?
Dear object of a care, whose fond excess
No studied forms of language can express!
How vain those arts, which vulgar cares controul,
To banish thy remembrance from my soul,
Which fixt and constant to its favourite theme,
In spite of time and distance, is the same:
Still feels thy absence equally severe,
Nor tastes, without thee, a delight sincere.
Now cold Aquarius rules the frozen sky,
And, with pale horrors, strikes the chearless eye:
Sooth'd by the melancholy gloom, I rove,
With lonely footsteps, through the silent grove,
While sullen clouds the face of heav'n invest,
And, in rude murmurs, howls the bleak north-east.
Ev'n there thy image rises to my sight,
And gilds the shade with momentary light:
Its magic power transforms the wintry scene,
And, gay as Eden, blooms the faded plain.
From solitude to busy crowds I fly,
And there each wild amusement idly try;
Where laughing Folly sports in various play,
And leads the chorus of the young and gay.
But here the Fancy only takes a part,
The giddy Mirth ne'er penetrates my heart,
Which cold, unmov'd by all I hear or see,
Steals from the circle to converse with thee.
To calm philosophy I next retire,
And seek the joys her sacred arts inspire;
Renounce the frolicks of unthinking youth
To court the more engaging charms of truth.
With Plato, soar on Contemplation's wing,
And trace perfection to th' eternal spring:
Observe the vital emanation flow,
That animates each fair degree below,
Whence order, elegance, and beauty move
Each finer sense, that tunes the mind to love;
Whence all that harmony and fire that join
To form a temper, and a soul like thine.
Thee, through each different track my thoughts pursue, Thy lov'd idea ever meets my view;
Of every joy, of every wish, a part,
And rules each varying motion of my heart.
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