Myrtilla's beauties who can paint? The well turned form, the glowing teint, May deck a common creature; But who can make th' expressive soul With lively sense inform the whole, And light up every feature. At church Myrtilla lowly kneels, No passion but devotion feels, No smiles her looks environ; But let her thoughts to pleasure fly, The basilisk is in her eye And on her tongue the Syren. More vivid beauty—fresher bloom, With teints from nature's richest loom In Sylvia's features glow; Would she Myrtilla's arts apply, And catch the magic of her eye, She'd rule the world below. See Laura, sprightly nymph, advance, Through all the mazes of the dance, With light fantastic toe; {470} See laughter sparkle in her eyes— At her approach new joys arise, New fires within us glow. Such sweetness in her look is seen, Such brilliant elegance of mien, So jauntie and so airy; Her image in our fancy reigns, All night she gallops through our veins, Like little Mab the fairy. Aspasia next, with kindred soul, Disdains the passions that control Each gentle pleasing art; Her sportive wit, her frolic lays, And graceful form attract our praise, And steal away the heart. We see in gentle Delia's face, Expressed by every melting grace, The sweet complacent mind; While hovering round her, soft desires, And hope gay smiling fan their fires, Each shepherd thinks her kind. The god of love mistook the maid, For his own Psyche, and 'tis said He still remains her slave; And when the boy directs her eyes To pierce where every passion lies, Not age itself can save. With pensive look and head reclined, Sweet emblems of the purest mind, Lo! where Cordelia sits; On Dion's image dwells the fair— Dion the thunderbolt of war, The prince of modern wits. Not far removed from her side, Statira sits in beauty's pride, And rolls about her eyes; Thrice happy for the unwary heart, That affectation blunts the dart That from her quiver flies. Whence does that beam of beauty dawn? What lustre overspreads the lawn? What suns those rays dispense? From Artemisia's brow they came, From Artemisia's eyes the flame That dazzles every sense. At length, fatigued with beauty's blaze, The feeble muse no more essays Her picture to complete; The promised charms of younger girls, When nature the gay scene unfurls, Some happier bard shall treat. SEQUEL TO THE BELLES OF WILLIAMSBURG. Ye bards that haunt the tufted shade, Where murmurs thro' the hallowed glade, The Heliconian spring— Who bend before Apollo's shrine, And dance and frolic with the nine, Or touch the trembling string—