'Tis not the liquid brightness of those eyes,
That swim with pleasure and delight;
Nor those fair heavenly arches which arise
O'er each of them to shade their light;

'Tis not that hair which plays with every wind,
And loves to wanton round thy face;

Now straying o'er thy forehead, now behind
Retiring with insidious grace :

'Tis not that lovely range of teeth, as white
As new-shorn sheep, equal and fair;

Nor e'en that gentle smile, the heart's delight,
With which no smile could e'er compare;
'Tis not that chin so round, that neck so fine,
Those breasts that swell to meet my love;
That easy sloping waist, that form divine,
Nor aught below, nor aught above:

'Tis not the living colours over each, By nature's finest pencil wrought,

To shame the fresh-blown rose and blooming peach, And mock the happiest painter's thought:

But 'tis that gentle mind, that ardent love,

So kindly answering my desire;~~~~

That grace with which you look, and speak, and move, That thus have set my soul on fire.

WHILE, Strephon, thus you tease one

To say what won my heart,

It cannot, sure, be treason,
If I the truth impart.

'Twas not your smile, tho' charming,
'Twas not your eyes, tho' bright,
'Twas not your bloom, tho' warming,
Nor beauty's dazzling light:

'Twas not your dress, tho' shining,
Nor shape, that made me sigh;
'Twas not your tongue, combining,
For that, I knew, might lie.

No:-'twas your generous nature,

Bold, soft, sincere, and gay :

It shone in every feature,

And stole my heart away.

WHISTLER.

THE shape alone let others prize,

The features of the fair; I look for spirit in her eyes, And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek and ivory arm
Shall ne'er my wishes win;

Give me an animated form

That speaks a mind within;

Aface where awful honour shines,
Where sense and sweetness move,

And angel innocence refines

The tenderness of love.

These are the soul of beauty's frame,

Without whose vital aid Unfinisht all her features seem,

And all her roses dead.

But ah! where both their charms unite,
How perfect is the view,

With every image of delight,

With graces

ever new!

I 2

Of

Of power to charm the deepest woe,
The wildest rage control;
Diffusing mildness o'er the brow,
And rapture thro' the soul.

Their power but faintly to express
All language must despair;

But go behold Aspasia's face,

And read it perfect there.

AKENSIDE.*

KITTY's charming voice and face,
Syren-like, first caught my fancy;
Wit and humour next take place,
And now I dote on sprightly NANCY.

KITTY tunes her pipe in vain

With airs most languishing and dying;
Calls me false ungrateful swain,

And tries in vain to shoot me flying.

* Assigned to this author by Ritson, but not contained in

his Works.

NANCY,

NANCY, with resistless art,

Always humorous, gay and witty, Has talk'd herself into my heart,

And quite excluded tuneful KITTY.

Ah KITTY! Love, a wanton boy,

Now pleased with song, and now with prattle, Still longing for the newest toy,

Has changed his whistle for a rattle.

Wor

OULDST thou know her sacred charms
Who this destined heart alarms,

What kind of nymph the heavens decree
That maid that 's made for love and me:

Who pants to hear the sigh sincere,
Who melts to see the tender tear,
From each ungentle passion free;
Such the maid that's made for me.

Who joys whene'er she sees me glad,
Who sorrows when she sees me sad,

For