Than Wreaths of Flow’rs, less innocent and sweet. Nor can thy Beds of State so gratefull be, As those of Moss, and new faln Leaves with me!” Now tow’rds the Beach we go, and all the way The Groves, the Fern, dark Woods, and springs survey; That were so often conscious to the Rites Of sacred Love, in our dear stoln Delights. With Eyes all languishing, each place you view, And sighing cry, _Adieu, dear Shades, Adieu!_ Then ‘twas thy Soul e’en doubted which to doe, Refuse a Crown, or those dear Shades forego! Glory and Love! the great dispute pursu’d, But the false Idol soon the God subdu’d. And now on Board you go, and all the Sails Are loosned, to receive the flying Gales. Whilst I, half dead on the forsaken Strand, } Beheld thee sighing on the Deck to stand, } Wafting a thousand Kisses from thy Hand. } And whilst I cou’d the lessening Vessel see, I gaz’d, and sent a thousand Sighs to thee! And all the Sea-born _Nereids_ implore Quick to return thee to our Rustick shore. Now like a Ghost I glide through ev’ry Grove, } Silent, and sad as Death, about I rove, } And visit all our Treasuries of Love! } This Shade th’account of thousand Joys does hide, As many more this murmuring Rivers side, Where the dear Grass, still sacred, does retain The print, where thee and I so oft have lain. Upon this Oak thy Pipe, and Garland’s plac’d, That Sicamore is with thy Sheephook grac’d. Here feed thy Flock, once lov’d though now thy scorn, Like me forsaken, and like me forlorn! A Rock there is, from whence I cou’d survey } From far the blewish Shore, and distant Sea, } Whose hanging top with toyl I climb’d each day, } With greedy View the prospect I ran o’er, To see what wish’d for ships approach’d our shore. One day all hopeless on its point I stood, And saw a Vessel bounding o’er the Flood, And as it nearer drew, I cou’d discern Rich Purple Sails, Silk Cords, and Golden Stern; Upon the Deck a Canopy was spread } Of Antique work in Gold and Silver made, } Which mix’d with Sun-beams dazling Light display’d. } But oh! beneath this glorious Scene of State (Curst be the sight) a fatal Beauty sate. And fondly you were on her Bosome lay’d, Whilst with your perjur’d Lips her Fingers play’d; Wantonly curl’d and dally’d with that hair, Of which, as sacred Charms, I Bracelets wear. Oh! hadst thou seen me then in that mad state, So ruin’d, so desig’d for Death and Fate, Fix’d on a Rock, whose horrid Precipice In hollow Murmurs wars with Angry Seas;