 | A collection of poems on various subjects |  |
3
THE MODEST MAID.
“I prithee what,” young Lubin cries,
“Is half so bright as Chloe's eyes?
“My Chloe is the sweetest maid
“That ever bloomed in court or glade.
“Has she not wit, and has she guile?
“And then her witching dimpl'd smile.”—
I only smil'd at what he said,
And sigh'd for thee, my modest Maid.
“Is half so bright as Chloe's eyes?
“My Chloe is the sweetest maid
“That ever bloomed in court or glade.
“Has she not wit, and has she guile?
“And then her witching dimpl'd smile.”—
I only smil'd at what he said,
And sigh'd for thee, my modest Maid.
Colin would talk of “Celia's air,
“Her shape—there never was so fair,
“Her fairy foot, that well became
“So sylph like and so soft a frame;
“Her melting accents, that could move—
“Could teach Philosophy to love!”—
I only smil'd to hear the swain,
And sigh'd, “my modest maid,” again.
“Her shape—there never was so fair,
“Her fairy foot, that well became
“So sylph like and so soft a frame;
“Her melting accents, that could move—
“Could teach Philosophy to love!”—
4
And sigh'd, “my modest maid,” again.
Ne'er had the contest ceas'd, but I
(Perhaps it was for harmony,)
Propos'd to either wrangling wight,
A toast which none that lov'd could slight;
I rais'd the bumper with a smile,
My soul upon my lip the while,
Nor long the pledge suspended staid,
When I had given—“the modest Maid.”
(Perhaps it was for harmony,)
Propos'd to either wrangling wight,
A toast which none that lov'd could slight;
I rais'd the bumper with a smile,
My soul upon my lip the while,
Nor long the pledge suspended staid,
When I had given—“the modest Maid.”
Not yet the wine touch'd Lubin's lip,
And Colin had but ta'en a sip,
My goblet, rosy to the top,
Now could not shew one blushing drop.
Thy Strephon did not care to boast
The triumph of his matchless toast,
But thought 'twas better felt than said
That Myra was the modest maid.
And Colin had but ta'en a sip,
My goblet, rosy to the top,
Now could not shew one blushing drop.
Thy Strephon did not care to boast
The triumph of his matchless toast,
But thought 'twas better felt than said
That Myra was the modest maid.
5
Yet where's the maid, that can compare
Her charms with thine? O Heav'ns how fair!
Each charm of face and form you have,
That fancy would create for love:
But not to beauty's magic wile,
Howe'er divine in thee her smile,
My heart's adoring tribute's paid,
I boast to love the modest maid.
Her charms with thine? O Heav'ns how fair!
Each charm of face and form you have,
That fancy would create for love:
But not to beauty's magic wile,
Howe'er divine in thee her smile,
My heart's adoring tribute's paid,
I boast to love the modest maid.
| A collection of poems on various subjects | |