A POET, OR, SOUND-HEARTED LOVER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MISTRESS.

Fair Nymph, who dost my fate controul, And reign'st the mistress of my soul, Where thou all bright in beauties ray Hast held a long tyrannick sway, They who the hardest rule maintain, In their commands do still refrain From what impossible must prove, But thou hast bade me cease to love; Nor would some gentle mercy give, And only bid me cease to live. Ah! when the magnet's pow'r is o'er, The compass then will point no more; And when no verdure cloaths the spring, The tuneful birds forget to sing: But thou all sweet and heav'nly fair, Hast bade thy swain from love forbear. In pity let thine own fair hand A death's-wound to this bosom send: This tender heart of purest faith May then resign thee with its breath; And in the sun-beam of thine eye A proud and willing victim die.

But since thou wilt not have it so, Far from thy presence will I go: Far from my heart's dear bliss I'll stray, Since I no longer can obey. In foreign climes I'll distant roam, No more to hail my native home: To foreign swains I'll pour my woe, In foreign plains my tears shall flow: By murm'ring stream and shady grove Shall other echoes tell my love; And richer flow'rs of vivid hue Upon my tomb shall other maidens strew.

Adieu, dear Phillis! should'ft thou e'er Some soft and plaintive story hear, Of hapless youth who died for love, Or all forlorn did banish'd rove, O think of me! nor then deny The gentle tribute of a sigh.