A FALCONER Henry is, when Emma hawks: With her of tarsels and of lures he talks. Upon his wrist the towering merlin stands, Practis'd to rise, and stoop at her commands. And when superior now the bird has flown, And headlong brought the tumbling quarry down; With humble reverence he accosts the fair, And with the honour'd feather decks her hair. Yet still, as from the sportive field she goes, His down-cast eye reveals his inward woes; And by his look and sorrow is exprest, A nobler game pursued than bird or beast.

A shepherd now along the plain he roves; And, with his jolly pipe, delights the groves.

The neighbouring swains around the stranger throng,
Or to admire, or emulate his song:

While with soft sorrow he renews his lays,
Nor heedful of their envy, nor their praise.
But, soon as Emma's eyes adorn the plain,
His notes he raises to a nobler strain,
With dutiful respect, and studious fear;
Lest any careless sound offend her ear.

A frantic gipsey now, the house he haunts,
And in wild phrases speaks dissembled wants.

*

But, when bright Emma would her fortune know,
A softer look unbends his opening brow;
With trembling awe he gazes on her eye,
And in soft accents forms the kind reply;
That she shall prove as fortunate as fair;

And Hymen's choicest gifts are all reserv'd for her.
Now oft' had Henry chang'd his sly disguise,
Unmark'd by all but beauteous Emma's eyes;
Oft' had found means alone to see the dame,
And at her feet to breathe his amorous flame;
And oft' the pangs of absence to remove
By letters, soft interpreters of love:
Till Time and Industry (the mighty two
That bring our wishes nearer to our view)
Made him perceive, that the inclining fair
Receiv'd his vows with no reluctant ear;
That Venus had confirm'd her equal reign,
And dealt to Emma's heart a share of Henry's pain.

I saw her; 'twas humanity; it gave
Some respite to the sorrows of my slave.
Her fond excess proclaim'd her passion true;
And generous pity to that truth was due.
Well I entreated her, who well deserved;
I call'd her often; for she often served.
Use made her person easy to my sight;
And ease insensibly produced delight.

Whene'er I revell'd in the women's bowers (For first I sought her but at looser hours)

The apples she had gather'd smelt most sweet:
The cake she kneaded was the savoury meat:
But fruits their odour lost, and meats their taste,
If gentle Abra had not deck'd the feast.
Dishonour'd did the sparkling goblet stand,
Unless received from gentle Abra's hand:
And, when the Virgins form'd the evening choir,
Raising their voices to the Master-lyre,
Too flat I thought this voice, and that too shrill :
One show'd too much, and one too little skill;
Nor could my soul approve the Music's tone;
'Till all was hush'd, and Abra sung alone.
Fairer she seem'd, distinguish'd from the rest,
And better mien disclos'd, as better drest.
A bright tiara, round her forehead ty'd,
To juster bounds confin'd its rising pride;
The blushing ruby on her snowy breast,
Render'd its panting whiteness more confess'd:
Bracelets of pearl gave roundness to her arm;
And every gem augmented every charm.
His senses pleas'd, her beauty still improv'd;
And she more lovely grew, as more belov'd.

A SONG.

If wine and music have the power,
To ease the sickness of the soul;
Let Phoebus every string explore;
And Bacchus fill the sprightly bowl.
Let them their friendly aid employ,
To make my Cloe's absence light;
And seek for pleasure to destroy
The sorrows of this live-long night.
But she to-morrow will return;
Venus, be thou to-morrow great;
Thy myrtles strow, thy odors burn;
And meet thy fav'rite nymph in state.
Kind goddess, to no other powers
Let us to-morrow's blessing own:
Thy darling loves shall guide the hours:
And all the day be thine alone.

A SONG.

In vain you tell your parting lover, You wish fair winds may waft him over. Alas! what winds can happy prove, That bear me far from what I love? Alas! what dangers on the main Can equal those that I sustain, From slighted vows, and cold disdain? Be gentle, and in pity choose To wish the wildest tempest loose: That, thrown again upon the coast, Where first my shipwreck'd heart was lost, I may once more repeat my pain; Once more in dying notes complain Of slighted vows, and cold disdain.