NELLY.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

Whilst others proclaim

This nymph or that swain,

Dearest Nelly, the lovely I'll sing;

She shall grace every verse,

I'll her beauties rehearse,

Which lovers can't think an ill thing.

Her eyes shine as bright

As stars in the night;

Her complexion divinely is fair;

Her lips red as a cherry,

Would a hermit make merry,

And black as a coal is her hair.

Her breath, like a rose,
Its sweets does disclose,

Whenever you ravish a kiss;

Like ivory enchased,

Her teeth are well placed;

An exquisite beauty she is.

She's blooming as May,

Brisk, lively, and gay,

The graces play all round about her;

She's prudent and witty,

Sings wondrously pretty,

And there is no living without her.

THE GARLAND.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.

At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flowers she wore along the day,
And every nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they looked more gay
Than glowing in their native bed.

Undress'd at evening when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past,
She changed her look and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear

Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well,

My love, my life, (said I) explain This change of humour; prythee tell,

That falling tear, what does it mean?

She sigh'd, she smil'd-and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said,
See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder what a change is made!

Ah me! the blooming pride of May
And that of beauty are but one;
At morn both flourish, bright and gay,
Both fade at evening, pale and gone.

At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung,
The amorous youth around her bow'd,
At night her fatal knell was rung;

I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud.

Such as she is who died to-day,

Such I, alas! may be to-morrow; Go, Damon, bid thy muse display The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.

I SMILE AT LOVE, AND ALL HIS ARTS.

SIR JOHN VANBRUGH.

Born 1666-Died 1726.

" I smile at Love, and all his arts," The charming Cynthia cried,"Take heed for Love has piercing darts," A wounded swain replied.

"Once free and blest as you are now,

I trifled with his charms,

I pointed at his little bow,
And sported with his arms:

'Till urg'd too far- Revenge,' he cries!
A fatal shaft he drew,

Which took its passage thro' your eyes,
And to my heart it flew :

To tear it thence I tried in vain,
To strive, I quickly found,
Was only to increase the pain,

And mortify the wound;

Too well, alas! I fear, you know

What anguish I endure,

Since what your eyes alone could do,

Your heart alone can cure."

[The composition of the well-known author of "The Relapse," and "The Provoked Wife," and the architect of Castle Howard and Blenheim. He has been satirized by Swift, and praised by Sir Joshua Reynolds. See his Life in the British Architects by Allan Cunningham.]

A TRANSLATION FROM SAPPHO.

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

Born [1671]-Died 1749.

Blest as the immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak and sweetly smile!

'Twas this bereav'd my soul of rest,
And rais'd such tumults in my breast;
For while I gaz'd in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost:

My bosom glow'd; the subtle flame Ran quick through all my vital frame; O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, My ears with hollow murmurs rung:

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd,
My feeble pulse forgot to play,
I fainted, sunk, and died away.

BELVIDERA.

AMRROSE PHILIPS.

On Belvidera's bosom lying,
Wishing, panting, sighing, dying;
The cold regardless maid to move
With unavailing pray'rs I sue;
You first have taught me how to love,
Ah! teach me to be happy too!

But she, alas! unkindly wise,
To all my sighs and tears replies,
'Tis every prudent maid's concern,

Her lover's fondness to improve;
If to be happy you should learn,

You quickly would forget to love.