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WOULD I might live near Avon's flow'ry brink,
And on the world and my Creator think;
Whilst others strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace,
Would I near Welland had a dwelling place.

Would I these harmless pastimes might pursue,
And uncontroll'd might ponds and rivers view;
Whilst others spend their time in base excess,
In drinking, gaming, and in wantonness.

Would I might let my fancy feed its fill,
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will,
Whilst others toil in hunting, are perplex'd,
And with unquiet recreations vex'd.

Would I might view the compass of the sky,
The flaming chariot of the world's great eye,.
And fair Aurora lifting up her head,
Blushing to rise from old Tithonus' bed.

Would I might walk in woods and forests long,
In whose cool bowers the birds sing maný a song;
And in the verdant meadows fresh and green,
Would I might sit, and court the Summer's queen.
Nobbs. 1682.



YES, Sweet's the delight, when our blushes impart The youthful affection that glows in the heart; When prudence, and duty, and reason approve The timid delight of the virgin's first love.

But if the fond virgin be destin'd to feel
A passion she must in her bosom conceal,
Lest a parent in anger the flame disapprove;
Where's then the delight of the virgin's first love?

If stolen the glance by which love is confess'd,
If the sigh, when half heav'd, be with terror suppress'd,
If the whisper of passion suspicion must move;
Where's then the delight of the virgin's first love?

Or, if her fond bosom with tenderness sighs
For a lover who ceases her fondness to prize;
Forgetting the vows with which warmly he strove
To gain the soft charm of the virgin's first lovė:

If, tempted by int'rest, he venture to shun
The gentle affection his tenderness won,

With another through passion's soft mazes to rove;
Where's then the delight of the virgin's first love?

See her eye, when the tale of his falsehood she hears, Now beaming with scorn, and now glist'ning with tears, How great is the anguish she's destin❜d to prove! Farewell the delight of the virgin's first love.

No more soft emotion shall glow on her cheek,
But paleness her bosom's fond agony speak;
And dimm'd by affliction that eye shall now prove,
Which spoke the soft warmth of the virgin's first love.

And see, sad companion of mental distress,

Disease steals upon her in health's flatt'ring dress! Sure! the blush on that cheek ev'ry fear must remove: Ah! no, 'tis th' effect of the virgin's first love.

Still brighter the colour that glows in her cheek;
Her eye boasts a lustre no language can speak;
Oh! vain are the hopes these appearances move;
Fond parent! they spring from the virgin's first love.

And now quite unconscious that fate hovers near, On her face see the smile of contentment appear: No struggle, no groan, his dread summons to prove; Death ends the fond dream of the virgin's first love.

Ye nymphs! ere your bosoms with tenderness heave, Let your choice from a parent glad sanction receive, Lest wrong-plac'd affection's keen sorrows you prove, And Hymen ne'er smile on the virgin's first love.

But chiefly be sure, that the fond favour'd youth Is wholly your own, and devoted to truth;

Lest the anguish of slighted affection you prove, And death end the dream of the virgin's first love. The Cabinet.


WHEN ev'ry charm of life is fled,
And ev'ry thought is fill'd with care;
When peace, and hope, and health, are dead,
And nothing lives but dire despair ;

When sleep, the wretch's late relief,
Tho' potent drugs invite his pow'r;

Denies one little pause to grief,
The balmy respite of an hour:

Ah! what can pity's self devise,

From farther ills the wretch to save,
But wish his death, with tender sighs,
And drop a tear upon his grave!

Pratt's Gleanings.


Hung on the bough of a venerable Walnut Tree which overshadows the burying ground of Mr. Waller.

STRANGER, if virtue, or if verse be dear,
With pious caution pay thy visit here.
Planted by him whose sacred dust has laid
Twice fifty summers underneath this shade;
Protector of the hallow'd spot I stand,

To guard this vault from each unhallow'd hand :
Spare then each branch that canopies the tomb,
A part of Waller feeds my verdant bloom;
Oh! spare each leaf that bow'rs the poet's grave,
For in each leaf a part of him you save:
And on the fruits which clust'ring round me grow,
A more than vulgar destiny below :

Taste, but with rev'rence, kneeling at the shrine,
So may'st thou eat, and Waller's muse be thine:
A second tree of knowledge may I be,

And unforbidden wisdom shine in thee.

Beaconsfield Church Yard.

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