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Let softer Pens declare the Virgin's Praise,
And with the Bloom of Beauty gild their Lays;
Tell what enchantments hover round Fifteen,
How gay the Look, how sprightly is the Mien,
How red the Lip, how jetty black the Hair,
How soft the Bosom, and the Cheek how fair.
Charms more confirm'd my Numbers shall rehearse,
To Love's unalt'ring Pow'r be consecrate my Verse.
To Love, who scorns to wound with Vulgar Darts,
To Love, whose Throne's not rais'd on Female Arts,
But fills the Soul with rational Desires,
With Flames that Burn like Vesta's constant Fires;
With one unsully'd, Chaste, and steady Ray,
Nor, but with Life's exhausted Lamp, decay.
With these he warm'd Eugenio's faithful Heart,
Of these fair Anna felt the pleasing Smart.
First, by the silent Language of the Eyes,
Each knew the Motive of the other's Sighs;
A thousand Conscious Looks they Daily stole,
And in each Feature read the speaking Soul.
The Cheek with red perfus'd, the down-cast Eye,
The Breast that strove to stop the rising Sigh,
Told what the readier Tongue would gladly speak,
Durst it the Bonds of modest Silence break.
Strong Love at length each bashful Fear o'ercame,
And arm'd with Innocence surmounted shame.
Th'advent'rous Swain no more his Flame conceals,
The Nymph by Ill dissembling her's reveals;
And by Herself unknowingly betray'd,
Owns all the weakness of a Love-sick Maid.
Yet with a Modest Virgin's decent Pride,
She strove t'excuse the Flame she cou'd not hide.
Words that wou'd melt the rugged Scythian's Heart,
Or to the frozen Hermit warmth impart,
Fell from her trembling Lips—
On each soft sound the Swain with rapture dwells,
And with new streams of Love his Bosom swells.
The thousand Charms, that first his Soul did move,
Now are his least, his lightest Plea for Love.
The well turn'd Shape, the Skin as Iv'ry white,
The panting Bosom, seat of young Delight,
The sprightly sparkling Eyes serenely Bright,
He views as kindly Stars that led the Way
To Anna's beauteous Mind, that Scource of perfect Day.
From that alone substantial Joy he feels,
From that, where ev'ry pleasing Virtue dwells.
Good Sense adds Lustre to the brightest Eye,
And soft Compliance join'd with Modesty
Will clear the swarthy Lybian's darkest Dye,
Nor Helen's Beauty can with Orra's Virtue vie.
Who then can tell the Joys Eugenio knows,
When Beauty yields, and Virtue hears his Vows,
When all his Wishes to Perfection came,
When Hymen lit the Torch, and Cupid blew the Flame?

Thou, O my Soul, such Joys must never own
Who only know'st the Pain of Cœlia's Frown.