* * * * *

[Footnote 11:  Gods partial, changeful, passionate, unjust.[12] POPE.]

[Footnote 12:  The Poet has drawn his Jupiter according to the Homeric Model, in it’s least divine features.  Yet I wish he had not.  The Yorkshire Dip (the mixture of sweet and sour) might have remained a type of Life, temper’d in like manner:  not by the wrath but by the benevolence of Jupiter.

  ...  Who hath will’d
  That Pleasure be co-mate of Toil and Pain,
  Lest Joy should sink in listless apathy.

  _...  Curit acuens mortalia corda,_
  Nec torpere gravi passus fua Regna Veterno.

GEORG.  I.

And accordingly the next Poem.  C.L.]

* * * * *

LOVE’S TRIUMPH: 

AN ELEGIAC BALLAD.

[The Expostulation.—­Continued.—­Fears of Poverty.—­Encouragement.—­Baldwin’s Song.—­Deceitfulness of visions indulgence.—­Tormenting distressing Passions.—­Comforts of a low Fortune.—­Poverty in England contrasted with other Countries.—­The Question....  The Conclusion.]

* * * * *

1

  Come, let us seek the woodland shade,
    And leave this view of towns and towers: 
  Sweeter far the verdant mead,
    And lonely dell’s sequester’d bowers.

2

  Why does my Love this walk prefer;
    This hill, so near the public way? 
  Why is this prospect dear to her? 
    Where Villas proud their pomp display?

3

  Ah! why does Mary sometimes sigh,
    Surveying this magnific scene;
  The seats of Grandeur tow’ring high,
    With Rivers, Groves, and Lawns between?

4

  On splendid Cars, that smoothly move,
    With high-born Youths gay Damsels ride;
  By the encircling arm of Love
    Press’d to the wealthy Lover’s side.

5

  Why turn to view their easy state,
    As the long glittering train moves by? 
  And when they reach the pompous gate,
    Ah! why does youthful Mary sigh?

6

  Doth Envy that fond bosom heave? 
    Repining at her humble lot ... 
  Alas! does Mary long to leave
    The lonely Dale and lowly Cot?

7

  Pure and sincere is Mary’s Love: 
    Words were superfluous to tell;
  A thousand tendernesses prove
    That Mary loves her Stephen well.

8

  When list’ning to the Stockdove’s moan,
    Far in the deep sequester’d grove,
  The blush that whisper’d, “We’re alone,”
    Sweetly confess the power of Love.

9

Exalted Love concealment mocks,
This feign’d indifference does but prove
That was I Lord of Fields and Flocks,
My Mary’s Lips would own her Love.

10

Doth Poverty create the fears
That o’er your love their shadows fling? ... 
The silence of those falling tears
Confesses all the truth I sing.