To the Tune of, I wish my love were in a Mire.
BLEST as the immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak and sweetly smile, &c.
So spoke and smil’d the eastern maid;
Like thine, seraphick were her charms,
That in Circasia’s vineyards stray’d,
And blest the wisest monarch’s arms.
A thousand fair of high desert,
Strave to enchant the amorous king;
But the Circasian gain’d his heart,
And taught the royal bard to sing.
Clarinda thus our sang inspires,
And claims the smooth and highest lays,
But while each charm our bosom fires,
Words seem too few to found her praise.
Her mind in ev’ry grace complete,
To paint surpasses humane skill:
Her majesty, mixt with the sweet,
Let seraphs sing her if they will.
Whilst wand’ring, with a ravish’d eye,
We all that’s perfect in her view,
Viewing a sister of the sky,
To whom an adoration’s due.