November 7, 1776. No. 584.

COLIN, a Pastoral, on the Death, and in Imitation of Mr.
Cunningham.

                                    I.
GIVE ear, O!  ye swains to my Lay,
     Since Colin, alas!  is no more,
Let’s languish and pine all the day,
     In sorrow his loss we’ll deplore.
For he was the pride of the Plain,

     The Garden, the Grove, and the Field,
But lost is the pastoral strain
     Since he no more Beautys can yield.
                        II.
Ye warblers that bill on each spray,
     Ye Lambkins that wantonly roam,

Come round and attend to the Lay,
     Then bleat and your Master bemoan.
For a tender, good Shepard was he,
     So true and so kind to his trust,
With mildness and e’er painted thee,

      No swain sure was ever so just.
                        III.
His manner how soft and serene!
     How pleasing his shape and his Air!
No mortal like him was e’er seen,
     No mortal like him could compare,

For he was so gentle and kind,
     That Birds cluster’d round a throng,
And all in full Harmony join’d,
     Whenever he echo’d his Song.
                        IV.
But ah!  the dear Colin is gone

     No longer he sings thro’ the Grove,
No longer beneath the gay Thorn,
     He pours forth his odour of Love;
Then farewell—O!  favourite Bard,
     Adieu!  my dear Colin, adieu!

Thy merit I e’er shall regard,
     To thy Fame I will ever be true.

November 7, 1776. No. 584.

IMITATION des METAMORPHOSES D’OVIDE.
En vers libres, héroīques, et burlesques.
(Continuée de notre Gazette, No 567.) 

LES GEANTS FOUDROYÉS.
Nevè foret terris, &c. v. 151.

ET, pour que le ciel même eut part à cette rage,
Qui faisoit sur la terre un si cruel ravage,
On dit que les géants, mortels ambitieux,
Voulurent, dans ce temps, escalader les cieux.
     Par des montagnes entassés,

L’une sure l’autre, à la hâte lancées,
     Ils s’étoient frayé le chemin,
Et paroissoient déjà les armes à la main;
     Mais Jupiter lançant la foudre,
     Mit, d’abord, tout l’Olimpe en poudre:

     Puis, tout aussitôt, renversa
Le Pélion, aussi bien que l’Ossa.
Il confondit ainsi leur téméraire audace,
En les écrasant tous, sous cette lourde masse,
Ces gros rochers écroulés sur leurs dos,

     Leur servant à tous de tombeaux;
Mais la terre, dit-on, par leur sang humectée
Fut de leur triste sort vivement affectée;
     On dit même qu’elle craignit,
     Que leur race ne s’éteignit,

Et, qu’animant le sang qui jaillit de leurs veines,
     Elle en forma des figures humaines;
     Mais, par beaucoup de cruautés,
     Par d’horribles impiétés,
     Ces objets de haine divine

     Attesterent leur origine,
     Toujours, par quelque crime affreux,
     Provoquant le couroux des dieux.
                        (A Continuer.)

November 14, 1776. No. 585.

A Letter from Miss—— to the Right Honorable the Earl
of——.

AND dar’st thou then, insulting Lord!  demand
A friendly Answer from this trembling Hand?
No more thy Tears my tender Page shall stain,
Ambiguous Tears, dissembling Joy or Pain;
No more thine Eyes with sweet surprise pursue

Love’s sacred Myst’ries there unveild to you.
Demand’st thou still an Answer?—let it be
Hear it, in public Characters, relate
An ill-starr’d Passion, and capricious Fate:
Yes, public let it stand!  to warn the Maid

From one who fell, less vanquish’d than betray’d;
Guiltless, yet doom’d with guilty Pangs to groan,
And expiate others Treasons, not her own;
Destin’d with shame in Honor’s Paths to run;
Still virtue’s Follower, yet by Vice undone.

Such free Complaint to injur’d Love belongs:—
Yes, Tyrant, read and know me by my wrongs!
Yes, Traitor, read and reading tremble too!
I come to blaze thee to a Nation’s View;
I come—ah!  Wretch, thy swelling Rage controul!

Was he not once the Idol of thy Soul?
True, by his Guilt thy tortur’d Bosom bleeds,
Yet spare the guilty—for ’tis Love that pleads;
Respecting him, respect thy infant Flame;
Proclaim the Treason, hide the Traitor’s Name!

Enough to Honor and Revenge is giv’n,
This truth, reserve for Conscience and for Heav’n.
    Talk’st thou, Ingrate!  of Friendship’s holy Pow’rs?
The Tyger’s Union with the Lamb be ours!
This cold, this frozen Bosom, did’st thou dream,

Senseless to Love shall soften to Esteem?
What means thy friendship?  shall I bless my Fate,
Losing thy Love, to just escape thy Hate?—
REMEMBER THEE!  repeat that sound again:
My Heart applauding, echoe’s to the strain.

Yes, till this Heart forgets to beat and grieve,
Live there thy Image—but detested live!
My Hate pursue thee, unimpair’d by age,
Nor Mem’ry waken but to kindle Rage.
—Enter thy treacherous Bosom, enter deep;

Hear conscience call, while flat’ring Passions sleep!
Where harbour Honor, Conscience, Faith and Truth?
Where the bright Forms whose semblance caught my youth.
How could I doubt thy noble Breast their shrine,
That felt them glowing, tender Maid!  in mine.

Boast not of Trophies from my Fall atchiev’d!
Boast not, deceiver of this Soul deceiv’d!
Easy the Traitor wins an open Heart,
Artless itself, and unsuspecting Art,
Not by superior Wiles successful proves,

But fond Credulity in her who loves.
    Blush, shameless Grandeur, blush!  shall BRITAIN’S PEER
Daring all Crimes, not dare to be sincere?
What Charms were mine to tempt thy guilty Fires?
What Wealth, what Honors, from illustrious Sires?

Can Virtue’s simple spoils adorn thy Race?
Shall annals mark a Village—Maids disgrace?
When bursting Tears my inward anguish speak,
When Paleness spreads my sometimes flushing Cheek;
When my Frame trembles with convulsive strife

My spirits flutter on the Verge of Life;
When to my Heart my ebbing Pulse is driv’n,
My Eyes throw faint accusing Beams to Heav’n,
Yet Griefs that freeze my Accents, save my Fame.
Come, blast it, Traitor!—no: the Tale of Shame

The guilty Tale unwilling Lips confine,
My Portion Misery,—but no Triumph thine!
                        (To be continued)

November 21, 1776. No. 586.

A Letter from Miss—— to the Right Honorable the Earl
of——.
(Continued from our last)

WOULD thou had’st left me where I met thine Eye,
A simple Flower, to bloom in shades and die!
On downy Wings where rose the sprightly Morn,
Where Evening found not in my Breast a Thorn;
Pure Joys were mine—Content at least, that flows,

With temp’rale Current thro’ this Vale of woes:
Cruel to poison Moments sweet as these!
On me to practice fatal Arts to please!
Destin’d, if prosp’rous, for sublimer Charms:
To court proud Wealth and Greatness to thy Arms:

How many a lighter, many a fairer Dame,
Fond of her Prize, had fan’d thy fickle Flame:
With livelier Moments sooth’d thy vacant Mind,
Easy possess’d thee—easy too resign’d;
Chang’d but her object, Passion’s willing Slave,

Nor felt the Wound that festers to the Grave!
Ah!  had I, conscious of thy fierce Desires,
But half consenting shar’d contagious Fires,
Half yielding heard thine impious suit maintain’d,
This trembling Heart had suffer’d—not complain’d;

But ah!  with Tears and crouded Sighs to sue,—
To dress dissembled Passions like the true;
To borrow still Confusions sweet Disguise,
Meet my coy Virtues with dejected Eyes;
To steal their Language, which no words impart,

And give me back the Image of my Heart;
This, this was Treach’ry;—by such Arts assail’d,
I fell—GREAT GOD!—what Virtue had not fail’d?
    Yet unrelenting: ill the Tyrant cries,
Heedless of Pity’s Voice, and Beauty’s Sighs,

That pious Frauds, the wisest, best approve,
And Heav’n but smiles at Perjurys in Love.
No:—Heav’n and Virtue scorn the mean Pretence!
No:—’tis the Villain’s—’tis the Slave’s Defence!
No:—’tis the base Sensation Cowards feel!

The Wretch who trembles at the brave Man’s Steel,
In Woman’s Rage no daring mischief fears,
And mocks the feeble Arms of Sighs and Tears.
In vain a Sex, by Nature taught to rest
It’s trembling Weakness on your firmer Breast

Pleads Pity:—coward Man, to Woman brave,
Insults the Virtue he was born to save.
    What!  shall the lightest Promise Lips can feign
Bind Man to Man in Honor’s sacred Chain?
And oaths to us not sanctify th’accord,

Not Heav’n attested, nor Heav’n’s aweful Lord?
Why various Laws for Beings form’d the same?
Equal from one indulgent Power we came,
Who, blessing to be blest, design’d his Race
With manly Vigour, temp’ring female Grace.

Sequester’d from our Sex, Vain Man, relate
Your solitary Pleasures, sullen State!
What tender Joys sit brooding o’er your Store?
What Slumbers soothe Ambition bath’d in Gore?
’Tis ours, the social Passions to control,

To pour the Balm that heals the wounded Soul;
To lure your Fancy with diviner Themes
Than Wealth, than Power’s delusive, restless Dreams.
Yet frantic Man, dissolving Bonds so dear,
Secure from Love, his Empire founds on fear,

Nor dream’st thou, Traitor, what confirms thy Laws,
Not manly Triumph—Blush to hear the Cause!
’Tis FEMALE SOFTNESS—Tyrants else might feel
The desperate Vengeance of a Woman’s Steel.
                                    (To be continued)

November 28, 1776. No. 587.

A Letter from Miss—— to the Right Honorable the Earl
of——.
(Continued)

STILL if you glory in the Lyon’s Force,
Come, nobly emulate that Lyon’s Course!
From guarded Herds he vindicates his Prey;
Nor lurks in Thickets from the Blaze of day:
While Man, not confident in manly Arms,

Now offering Truce, now sounding false Alarms,
With Customs, Laws, with Terror, Fraud, combin’d,
Relaxes all the Nerves that brace the mind,
Then lordly, savage, reds the trembling Heart
First gain’d by Treach’ry, and then tam’d by Art.

    Are these reflections then that Love inspires?
Is bitter grief the Fruit of fair Desires?
From whose Example could I dream to find
The mournful Privilege to curse Mankind!
Ah!  long I strove to burst th’enchanting Tye,

And form’d Resolves that e’en in forming die:
Too long I linger’d on the fatal Coast,
And ey’d the Ocean where my Wealth was lost;
In silence wept, fearce venturing to complain:
Still to my Heart dissembled half my Pain:

Ascrib’d my suff’rings to its Fears,—not you;
Beheld you treach’rous, and then wish’d you true;
Sooth’d by those Wishes, by myself deceiv’d,
I fondly hop’d, and hoping, I believ’d.
Cruel!  to whom,—ah!  whither can I flee,

Friends, Fortune, Fame, deserted all for thee?
On whom but thee, this aching Frame repose?
With whom but thee deposit all its Woes?
To whom but thee explain its stifled Groan,
And live for whom but thee, and thee alone?

What Hand to probe my bleeding Heart be found?
What Hand to heal, but his who gave the Wound?
    Oh!  dreadful Chaos!—when the ruin’d mind,
Lost to itself,—to Virtue,—humankind,
From Earth to Heav’n a Meteor flaming wide,

Link’d to no system,—to no Word allied,
Feels all a Blank within:—each pregnant thought
That Nature, Reason, that Experience taught,
Past, present, future, feels alike destroy’d,
While Love alone usurps the mighty Void!

A Void how gloomy when Love is flown!
What shades we grasp, the noble structure gone!
From one ador’d, adoring once, we dream
Of friendship’s tenderness,—even cold Esteem.
Rejected still the suppliant suit advance—

Plead for a last farewell—a moment’s Glance,
A Letter,—Token—wreck’d in search of shore,
We catch the Plank of Hope, and rise no more.
    In that dread Moment when the hov’ring flame
Scarce languish’d into life, again you came,

Pursued again a too successful Theme,
And dry’d my Eyes with yours again to stream,
When practis’d Tears your venial fault confess,
And half dissembled, half excus’d the rest,
To kindred Griefs taught Pity by my own,

Sighs I return’d and answer’d Groan for Groan,
Your self-reproaches, stif’ling mine, approv’d,
And much I credited, for much I lov’d.
                                    (To be continued)

November 28, 1776. No. 587.

IMITATION des METAMORPHOSES D’OVIDE.
En vers libres, héroīques, et burlesques.
Nevè foret terries, &c. v. 151.
CONSEIL TENU PAR JUPITER.
La voye Lactée.

QUAND Jupiter, du haut de la voute azurée,
     Vit ces excès, son ame en fut si pénétrée,
     Qu’il poussa des gémissements
     Pareils à des rugissements;
     Se rapellant la perfidie

     De Lycaon, roi d’Arcadie.
     Surtout l’exécrable souper,
     Qu’il lui servit pour le duper.
     Alors, transporté de colere,
Et, jettant un regard de courroux sur la terre,

     Il fait assembler son conseil,
     Dans le plus pompeux appareil.
Il est, au firmament, un célébre passage,
Qu’on voit, à découvert, dans un tems sans nuage,
Par sa blancheur, égalant, en effet,

Celle des lys, de la neige, et du lait,
De-là derive, en la mythologie,
     De son nom l’étimologie.
Ce fut par ce chemin que la foule des dieux
Se rendit au palais du souverain des cieux,

Que je ne puis parfaitement dépeindre;
     Mais, qu’il me soit permis de feindre:
En front, et dans l’enceinte est la céleste cour,
Où Jupin et Junon ont choisi leur séjour:
Les dieux les plus puissants, et de noble naissance,

Ont de chaque coté fixé leur residence,
     Le peuple, où les plus petits dieux,
     Habitent en différents lieux.
     Alors tout le sacré cortége
     S’étant mis chacun sur un siége,

     S’étant dis-je assis sur un banc,
En demi cercle, et de beau marbre blanc,
Jupin, beaucoup plus haut, tout rayonnant de gloire,
Fiérement appuyé sur un sceptre d’yvoire,
Quatre ou cinq fois, sécouant ses cheveux,

Fit trembler et la terre, et la mer, et les cieux,
Et lançant, de rechef, un regard fort sévere,
Il exhale, en ces mots, sa trop juste colere.
                        (A Continuer)