Volume Ii Part 13 (2/2)

If rightly tuneful bards decide, If it be fixed in Love's decrees, That Beauty ought not to be tried But by its native power to please, Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell-- What fair can Amoret excel?

Behold that bright unsullied smile, And wisdom speaking in her mien: Yet--she so artless all the while, So little studious to be seen-- We naught but instant gladness know, Nor think to whom the gift we owe.

But neither music, nor the powers Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer, Add half the suns.h.i.+ne to the hours, Or make life's prospect half so clear, As memory brings it to the eye From scenes where Amoret was by.

This, sure, is Beauty's happiest part; This gives the most unbounded sway; This shall enchant the subject heart When rose and lily fade away; And she be still, in spite of Time, Sweet Amoret, in all her prime.

Mark Akenside [1721-1770]

SONG

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, an ivory arm, Shall ne'er my wishes win: Give me an animated form, That speaks a mind within.

A face where awful honor s.h.i.+nes, 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 Unfinished 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:

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

Their power but faintly to express All language must despair; But go, behold Arpasia's face, And read it perfect there.

Mark Akenside [1721-1770]

KATE OF ABERDEEN

The silver moon's enamored beam Steals softly through the night, To wanton with the winding stream, And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state go balmy sleep ('Tis where you've seldom been), May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait, In rosy chaplets gay, Till morn unbar her golden gate, And give the promised May.

Methinks I hear the maids declare, The promised May, when seen, Not half so fragrant, half so fair, As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, We'll rouse the nodding grove; The nested birds shall raise their throats, And hail the maid of love; And see--the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green: Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,-- 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now lightsome o'er the level mead, Where midnight fairies rove, Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, Or tune the reed to love: For see the rosy May draws nigh, She claims a virgin Queen; And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

John Cunningham [1729-1773]

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