But thou, fair nymph, thyfelf furvey In this fweet offspring of a day;

That miracle of face muft fail:

Thy charms are fweet, but charms are frail
Swift as the short liv'd flower they fly,

At morn they bloom, at evening die:
Tho' fickness yet awhile forbears,
Yet time destroys what fickness spares.
Now Helen lives alone in fame,
And Cleopatra's but a name.

Time muft indent that heavenly brow,
And thou must be, what they are now.

This Moral to the fair difclofe,
Queen of fragrance, lovely Rose.

BROOME.

THE NARCISSUS.

AS pendent o'er the limpid ftream

I bow'd my fnowy pride,

And languish'd in a fruitless flame,

For what the Fates deny'd;

The fair Paftora chanc'd to pass,
With fuch an angel air,

I faw her in the wat'ry glass,

And lov'd the rival fair.

Ye fates, no longer let me pine,
A felf admiring fweet,

Permit me, by your grace divine,
To kifs the fair-one's feet.

That if by chance the gentle maid
My fragrance fhould admire,
I may, upon ber bofom laid,.
In fifter's fweets expire. of, pi

CUNNINGHAM.

ON A SHADOW.

AN ODE..

HOW are deluded human kind

By empty shows betray'd?

In all their hopes and schemes they find
A nothing, or a fhade.

The profpects of a truncheon caft

A foldier on the wars;

Difmifs'd with shatter'd limbs at last,
Brats, poverty, and scars.

The fond philofopher for gain
Will leave unturn'd no ftone;

But tho' they toil with endless pain, They never find their own.

By the fame rock the chemifts drown,
And find no friendly hold,
But melt their ready fpirit down,
In hopes of fancy'd gold.

What is the mad projector's care?
In hopes elate and fwelling,

He builds his caftles in the air,
Yet wants an houfe to dwell in.

At court, the poor dependants fail,
And damn their fruitlefs toil,
When complimented thence to jail,
And ruin'd with a fmile.

How to philofophers will found
So ftrange a truth display'd?

There's not a fubftance to be found,

"But every where a shade.”

ODE TO PEACE.

O THOU, who bad'ft thy turtles bear
Swift from his grafp thy golden hair,
And fought'ft thy native skies;
When war, by vultures drawn from far,

To Britain bent his iron car,

And bade his ftorms arife!

Tir'd of his rúde tyrannic fway,
Our youth fhall fix fome feftive day,
His fullen fhrines to burn;

But thou, who hear'ft the turning spheres,
What founds may charm thy partial ears,
And gain thy bleft return!

O Peace, thy injur'd robes upbind!
O rife and leave not one behind
Of all thy beamy train;
The British lion, goddess sweet,

Lies ftretch'd on earth to kifs thy feet,
And own thy holier reign

Let others court thy tranfient smile,
But come to grace thy western isle,

By warlike honour led!

And while around her ports rejoice,
While all her fons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!

COLLINS.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY.
WHAT Nature, alas! has denied
To the delicate growth of our Ifle,
Art has in a measure supplied,

And Winter is deck'd with a smile.

See, Mary, what beauties I bring
From the shelter of that funny fhed,

Where the flow'rs have the charms of the Spring,
Tho' abroad they are frozen and dead.

'Tis a bow'r of Arcadian fweets,
Where FLORA is still in her prime,

A fortrefs to which the retreats
From the cruel affaults of the clime.

While earth wears a mantle of fnow,
The pinks are as fresh and as gay,
As the fairest and fweeteft that blow

On the beautiful bofom of May.