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Fond deceits, and kind surprises;
Sudden sinks, and sudden rises;
Laughs, and toys, and gamesome fights;
Jolly dance, and girds, and flights:
Then, to make me wholly bless'd,
Let me be there a welcome guest.

HAMILTON.

TO HEALTH.

WRITTEN AT BUXTON.

O ROSY health, heart-easy maid,
In garments light thy limbs array'd,
In smiles thy jocund features dress'd,
Of Heaven's best blessings thou the best;
Bright goddess, ever fair and young,
To thee my votive lays belong!
For thou hast fill'd each languid vein
With vigour, life, and strength again,
When pale, enervate, wan, and weak,
Despair and sickness seized my cheek.

O, could my voice such numbers raise,
Thee and thy healing founts to praise,
As might with themes so high agree,
Praise worthy them and worthy thee!
O nymph, admit me of thy train,
With thee to range the breezy plain;
And fresh and strong my limbs to lave
Beneath thy nerve-restoring wave.
With thee to rouse the slumbering morn
With opening hound and cheering horn,
With shouts that shake each wood and hill,
While mocking Echo takes her fill.

O lover of the daisied lawn!

"Tis thine, at earliest peep of dawn,
The ranging forester to greet;
Or the blithe lass, whose tripping feet,
All as she sings beneath the pail,
Imprint long traces o'er the vale.
Nor seekest thou the proud resorts
Of cities and licentious courts,
Where Sloth and Gluttony abide,
With bloated Surfeit by their side;
But humbly scornest not to dwell
With Temperance in the rural cell;
To watch the sheepboy at his stand,
Or ploughman on the furrow'd land.
These climates cold, these barren plains,
Where rude uncultured Nature reigns,
Better thy hardy manners please
Than bowers of Luxury and Ease.
And oft you trip these hills among
With Exercise, a sportsman young,
Who, starting at the call of day,
Cuffs drowsy Indolence away,
And climbs with many a sturdy stride
The mossy mountain's quivering side;
Nor fleeting mist nor sullen storm
Nor blast nor whirlwind can deform
The careless scene when thou art there
With Cheerfulness, thy daughter fair.
From thee, bright Health, all blessings spring!
Hither thy blooming children bring,-
Light-hearted Mirth and Sport and Joy
And young-eyed Love, thy darling boy.
"Tis thou hast pour'd o'er Beauty's face
Its artless bloom, its native grace;

Thou on my Laura's cheek hast spread
The peach's blush, the rose's red;
With quickening life thy touch supplies
The polish'd lustre of her eyes:
O, ever make thy dwelling there,
And guard from harm my favourite fair!
O, let no blighting grief come nigh;
And chase away each hurtful sigh,
Disease, with sic yellow spread,
And Pain that holds the drooping head!
There, as her beauties you defend,
Oft may her eye in kindness bend
(So doubly bounteous wilt thou prove)
On me who live but in her love.

MUNDAY.

ODE.

COME here, fond youth, whoe'er thou be,
That boasts to love as well as me;

And if thy breast have felt so wide a wound,
Come hither and thy flame approve;

I'll teach thee what it is to love,

And by what marks true passion may be found.

It is to gaze upon her eyes

With eager joy and fond surprise ;

It is to be all bathed in tears;

To live upon a smile for years;

To lie whole ages at a beauty's feet;

To kneel, to languish, and implore;

And still, though she disdain, adore:

It is to do all this, and think thy sufferings sweet.

Yet temper'd with such chaste and awful fear
As wretches feel who wait their doom;
Nor must one ruder thought presume,
Though but in whispers breathed, to meet her ear.

It is to hope, though hope were lost;

Though heaven and earth thy passion cross'd, Though she were bright as sainted queens above, And thou the least and meanest swain That folds his flocks upon the plain,

Yet if thou darest not hope thou dost not love..

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It is to quench thy joy in tears;

To nurse strange doubts and causeless fears: If pangs of jealousy thou hast not proved, Though she were fonder and more true Than any nymph old poets drew, Oh, never dream again that thou hast loved.

If, when the darling maid is gone,
Thou dost not seek to be alone,

Wrapp'd in a pleasing trance of tender woe,
And muse and fold thy languid arms,
Feeding thy fancy on her charms,
Thou dost not love, for love is nourish'd so.

If any hopes thy bosom share

But those which love has planted there, Or any cares but his thy breast enthrall, Thou never yet his power hast known; Love sits on a despotic throne,

And reigns a tyrant, if he reigns at all.

Now if thou art so lost a thing,
Here all thy tender sorrows bring,

And prove whose patience longest can endure;
We'll strive whose fancy shall be lost
In dreams of fondest passion most;
For if thou thus hast loved, oh, never hope a cure!

MRS. BARBAULD.

TO FANCY.

OH Thou! whose empire unconfined
Rules all the busy realms of Mind!

The slow-eyed Cares thy mild dominion
Confess; if thou thy rod extend,
No more the sharp-fang'd Sorrows rend,
But, hovering round on frolic pinion,
The laughing train of Joys descend.

To soothe the woes of absent love,
Come, Fancy! now, what time above

The full orb'd moon, that rose all glowing,
Begins her lifted lamp to pale;
What time to charm the listening vale,
In liquid warbles fondly flowing,
Laments the' enamour'd nightingale.

In softly pleasing light the queen
Of heaven arrays the blue serene,

Yet lovelier beams the gentle glory
In Anna's azure eyes display'd:
Sweet is the poet of the shade;

Yet sweeter than his warbled story Each sound from Anna's lips convey'd.

Nor haply shall I ever find
That tongue to me alone unkind,

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