White her skin as mountain snow,

In her cheek the roses blow,
And her eye is brighter far
Than the beamy_morning-star.
When her ruddy lip ye view,

'Tis a berry moist with dew;"

And her breath, oh! it is a gále dinge
Passing o'er a fragrant vale,

Passing when a friendly show'r»«, ???
Fresh'ns ev'ry herb and flow'r. »d' là slova.
Wide her bosom opens gayi 1 gót in,
As the primrose dell in May,

Sweet as violet borders growing

Over fountains ever flowing.

Like the tendrils of the vine
Do her auburn tresses twine,
Glossy ringlets all behind

Streaming buxom to the wind,

When along the lawn she bounds

Light as hind before the hounds; parti
A. d the youthful ring she fires,
Hopeless in their fond desires,
As her flitting feet advance
Wanton in the winding dance.

Tell me, shepherds! have ye seen

HAVE ye seen the morning sky
When the dawn prevails on high,
When anon some purply ray
Gives a sample of the day,,
When anon the lark on wing
Strives to soar and strains to sing?

Have ye seen th' ethereal blue
Gently shedding silv'ry dew,
Spangling o'er the silent green,
While the nightingale, unseen,
To the moon and stars full bright
Lonesome chants the hymn of night?

Have ye seen the broider'd May
All her scented bloom display,
Breezes op'ning ev'ry hour

This and that expecting flow'r,
While the mingling birds prolong
From each bush the vernal song?

Have ye seen the damask rose

EPISTLES.

TO A FRIEND,-

Who desired me to write on the Death of King William.

April 20, 1702.
TRUST
RUST me, dear George! could I in verse but show
What sorrow I, what sorrow all men owe

To Nassau's fate; or could I hope to raise
A song proportion'd to the monarch's praise;
Could I his merits or my grief express,

And proper thoughts in proper language dress,
Unbidden should my pious numbers flow,
The tribute of a heart o'ercharg'd with woe:
But, rather than profane his sacred hearse
With languid praises and unhallow'd verse,
My sighs I to myself in silence keep,
And inwardly with secret anguish weep.
Let Halifax's Muse (he knew him well)
His virtues to succeeding ages tell:

Let him who sung the warrior on the Boyne,
(Provoking Dorset in the task to join)
And shew'd the hero more than man before,
Let him th' illustrious mortal's face deplore;
A mournful theme! while on raw pinions I

10

Content, if, to divert my vacant time,
I can but like some lovesick fopling rhyme,
To some kind-hearted mistress make my court,
And like a modish wit in sonnet sport.

Let others, more ambitious, rack their brains
In polish'd sentiments and labour'd strains;
To blooming Phyllis I a song compose,
And for a rhyme compare her to the rose ;
Then while my fancy works I write down morn,
To paint the blush that does her cheek adorn;
And when the whiteness of her skin I show,
With ecstasy bethink myself of snow :
Thus without pains I tinkle in the close,
And sweeten into verse insipid prose.

The country scraper, when he wakes his crowd,
And makes the tortur'd catgut squeak aloud,
Is often ravish'd, and in transport lost;

What more, my Friend! can fam'd Corelli boast,
When Harmony herself from heav'n descends,
And on the artist's moving bow attends?

Why, then, in making verses should I strain
For wit, and of Apollo beg a vein?
Why study Horace and the Stagyrite?
Why cramp my dufness, and in torment write?
Let me transgress by nature, not by rule,
An artlesss idiot, not a study'd fool,

A Withers, not a Rymer, since I aim
At nothing less in writing than a name.

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