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A female form at last Vertumnus wears, With all the marks of reverend age appears, His temples thinly spread with silver hairs; Propp'd on his staff, and stooping as he goes, A painted mitre shades his furrow'd brows. The god in this decrepit form array'd

The gardens entered, and the fruit survey'd;
And, "Happy you!" he thus address'd the maid,
"Whose charms as far all other nymphs outshine,
As other gardens are excell'd by thine!"





Then kiss'd the fair; (his kisses warmer grow
Than such as women on their sex bestow)
Then plac'd beside her on the flowery ground,
Beheld the trees with autunn's bounty crown'd,
An elm was near, to whose embraces led,
The curling vine her swelling clusters spread: '
He view'd her twining branches with delight,
And prais'd the beauty of the pleasing sight.
"Yet this tall elm, but for this vine," he said,
"Had stood neglected, and a barren shade;
And this fair vine, but that her arms surround
Her married elm, had crept along the ground,
Ah! beauteous maid! let this example move
Your mind averse from all the joys of love,
Deign to be lov'd, and every heart subdue!
What nymph could e'er attract such crowds as you?
Not she whose beauty urg'd the Centaur's arms,
Ulysses' queen, nor Helen's fatal charms.
Ev'n now, when silent scorn is all they gain,



A thousand court you, though they court in vain,

A thousand sylvans, demigods, and gods,


That haunt our mountains and our Alban woods.

But if you'll prosper, mark what I advise,
Whom age and long experience render wise,
And one whose tender care is far above
All that these lovers ever felt of love,
(Far more than e'er can by yourself be guess'd;)
Fix on Vertumnus, and reject the rest;
For his firm faith I dare engage my own;
Scarce to himself himself is better known,






To distant lands Vertumnus never roves;
Like you, contented with his native groves;
Nor at first sight, like most, admires the fair;
For you he lives; and you alone shall share
His last affection as his early care.
Besides, he's lovely far above the rest,
With youth immortal, and with beauty blest.
Add, that he varies every shape with ease,
And tries all forms that may Pomona please.
But what should most excite a mutual flame,
Your rural cares and pleasures are the same.
To him your orchard's early fruits are due;
(A pleasing offering when 'tis made by you:)
He values these; but yet, alas! complains
That still the best and dearest gift remains.
Not the fair fruit that on yon branches glows
With that ripe red th' autumnal sun bestows;
Nor tasteful herbs that in these gardens rise,
Which the kind soil with milky sap supplies;
You, only you, can move the god's desire;
Oh! crown so constant and so pure a fire!
Let soft compassion touch your gentle mind;
Think 'tis Vertumnus begs you to be kind:
So may no frost, when early buds appear,
Destroy the promise of the youthful year;
Nor winds, when first your florid orchard blows, 110
Shake the light blossoms from their blasted boughs!"
This when the various god had urg'd in vain,

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He straight assum'd his native form again:
Such, and so bright an aspect now he bears,
As when through clouds th' emerging sun appears,
And thence exerting his refulgent ray,
Dispels the darkness, and reveals the day.
Force he prepar'd, but check'd the rash design;
For when, appearing in a form divine,
The nymph surveys him, and beholds the
Of charming features and a youthful face,
In her soft breast consenting passions move,
And the warm maid confess'd a mutual love.




grace 120






The hint of the following piece was taken from Chaucer's House of Fame. The design is in a manner entirely altered, the descriptions and most of the particular thoughts my own: yet I could not suffer it to be printed without this acknowledgement. The reader who would compare this with Chaucer, may begin with his third book of Fame, there being nothing in the two first book that answer to their tite.

In that soft season, when descending showers
Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flowers;
When opening buds salute the welcome day,
And earth relenting feels the genial ray;
As balmy sleep had charm'd my cares to rest,
And love itself was banish'd from my breast,
(What time the morn mysterious visions brings,
While purer slumbers spread their golden wings)
A train of phantoms in wild order rose,
And join'd, this intellectual scene compose.
I stood, methought, betwixt earth,



The whole creation open to my eyes:
In air self-balanc'd hung the globe below,
Where mountains rise and circling oceans flow;
Here naked rocks, and empty wastes were seen,
There towery cities, and the forests green;
Here sailing ships delight the wandering eyes,
There trees and intermingled temples rise:
Now a clear sun the shining scene displays,
The transient landscape now in clouds decays.
O'er the wide prospect as I gaz'd around,
Sudden I heard a wild promiscuous sound,
Like broken thunders that at distance roar,
Or billows murmuring on the hollow shore:
Then gazing up, a glorious pile beheld,



Whose towering summit ambient clouds conceal'd.
High on a rock of ice the structure lay,
Steep its ascent, and slippery was the way;






The wondrous rock like Parian marble shone, And seem'd, to distant sight, of solid stone. Inscriptions here of various names I view'd, The greater part by hostile time subdued; Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past, And poets once had promis'd they should last. Some fresh engrav'd appear'd of wits renown'd; I look'd again, nor could their trace be found. Critics I saw that other names deface, And fix their own, with labour, in their place: Their own, like others, soon their place resign'd, Or disappear'd, and left the first behind. Nor was the work impair'd by storms alone, But felt th' approaches of too warm a sun ; For fame, impatient of extremes, decays Not more by envy than excess of praise. Yet part no injuries of heav'n could feel, Like crystal faithful to the graving steel: The rock's high summit, in the temple's shade, Nor heat could melt, nor beating storm invade. Their names inscrib'd unnumber'd ages past From time's first birth, with time itself shall last; These ever new, nor subject to decays, Spread, and grow brighter with the length of days. So Zembla's rocks (the beauteous work of frost) Rise white in air, and glitter o'er the coast; Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away, And on th' impassive ice the lightnings play: Eternal snows the growing mass supply, Till the bright mountains prop th' incumbent sky: As Atlas fix'd, each hoary pile appears, The gather'd winter of a thousand years. On this foundation Fame's high temple stands ; Stupendous pile! not rear'd by mortal bands. Whate'er proud Rome or artful Greece beheld, Or elder Babylon, its frame excell'd. Four faces had the dome, and everv face Of various structure, but of equal grace: Four brazen gates, on columns lifted high, Salute the, different quarters of the sky.








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