1 While with fond rapture and amaze, On thy transcendent charms I gaze, My cautious soul essays in vain Her peace and freedom to maintain: Yet let that blooming form divine, Where grace and harmony combine, Those eyes, like genial orbs that move, Dispensing gladness, joy, and love, In all their pomp assail my view, Intent my bosom to subdue, My breast, by wary maxims steel'd, Not all those charms shall force to yield. 2 But when, invoked to Beauty's aid, I see the enlighten'd soul display'd; That soul so sensibly sedate Amid the storms of froward fate, Thy genius active, strong, and clear, Thy wit sublime, though not severe, The social ardour, void of art, That glows within thy candid heart; My spirits, sense, and strength decay, My resolution dies away, And, every faculty oppress'd, Almighty Love invades my breast! * * * * * SONG. 1 To fix her!--'twere a task as vain To count the April drops of rain, To sow in Afric's barren soil, Or tempests hold within a toil. 2 I know it, friend, she's light as air, False as the fowler's artful snare, Inconstant as the passing wind, As winter's dreary frost unkind. 3 She's such a miser, too, in love, Its joys she'll neither share nor prove, Though hundreds of gallants await From her victorious eyes their fate. 4 Blushing at such inglorious reign, I sometimes strive to break her chain, My reason summon to my aid, Resolved no more to be betray'd. 5 Ah! friend, 'tis but a short-lived trance, Dispell'd by one enchanting glance; She need but look, and, I confess, Those looks completely curse or bless. 6 So soft, so elegant, so fair, Sure something more than human's there; I must submit, for strife is vain, 'Twas Destiny that forged the chain. * * * * * SONG. 1 Let the nymph still avoid and be deaf to the swain, Who in transports of passion affects to complain; For his rage, not his love, in that frenzy is shown, And the blast that blows loudest is soon overblown. 2 But the shepherd whom Cupid has pierced to the heart, Will submissive adore, and rejoice in the smart; Or in plaintive, soft murmurs his bosom-felt woe, Like the smooth-gliding current of rivers, will flow. 3 Though silent his tongue, he will plead with his eyes, And his heart own your sway in a tribute of sighs: But when he accosts you in meadow or grove, His tale is all tenderness, rapture, and love. * * * * * SONG. 1 From the man whom I love though my heart I disguise, I will freely describe the wretch I despise; And if he has sense but to balance a straw, He will sure take the hint from the picture I draw.