Page:Poetical Works of the Right Hon. Geo. Granville.djvu/112

100  To what my eyes admir’d before I add a thouſand graces more, And Fancy blows into a flame The ſpark that from her beauty came.

The object thus improv’d by thought, By my own image I am caught: Pygmalion ſo, with fatal art, Poliſh’d the form that ſtung his heart.

wilt thou break, my ſtubborn heart! O Death! how ſlow to take my part! Whatever I purſue denies; Death, Death itſelf, like Mira, flies.

Love and Deſpair, like twins, poſſeſt At the ſame fatal birth my breaſt: No hope could be; her ſcorn was all That to my deſtin’d lot could fall.

I thought, alas! that Love could dwell But in warm climes, where no ſnow fell; Like plants that kindly heat require To be maintain’d by conſtant fire.