 | The poems of Dr. Yalden |  |
TO MYRA;
WRITTEN IN HER CLEOPATRA.
Here, lovely Myra, you behold
The wonders Beauty wrought of old,
In every mournful page appears
The nymph's disdain, and lover's tears.
Whilst these feign'd tragic tales you view,
Fondly you weep, and think them true;
Lament the hero's slighted flame,
Yet praise the fair ungrateful dame.
The wonders Beauty wrought of old,
In every mournful page appears
The nymph's disdain, and lover's tears.
Whilst these feign'd tragic tales you view,
Fondly you weep, and think them true;
Lament the hero's slighted flame,
Yet praise the fair ungrateful dame.
For youths unknown no longer grieve,
But rather heal the wounds you give;
The slaves your eyes have ruined, mourn,
And pity flames with which your lovers burn.
But rather heal the wounds you give;
The slaves your eyes have ruined, mourn,
And pity flames with which your lovers burn.
Oh, hadst thou liv'd in former days,
Thus Fame had sung lov'd Myra's praise:
The triumphs of thy haughty reign,
Thy matchless form and cold disdain:
Thy beauties had remain'd as long
The theme of every poet's song:
Then Myra's conquests had been wrote,
And Cleopatra died forgot.
Thus Fame had sung lov'd Myra's praise:
The triumphs of thy haughty reign,
Thy matchless form and cold disdain:
Thy beauties had remain'd as long
The theme of every poet's song:
Then Myra's conquests had been wrote,
And Cleopatra died forgot.
| The poems of Dr. Yalden | |