RONALD AND DORNA :

DY A HIGHLANDER, TO HIS MISTRESS. From a literal Tranflation of the Original. COME, let us climb Skorr-urran's fnowy top; Cold as it seems, it is lefs cold than you: Thin through its fnow these lambs its heath-twigs

crop;

Your fnow, more hoftile, starves and freezes too. What though I lov'd of late in Skie's fair ifle; And blufh'd-and bow'd-and fhrunk from Kenza's eye;

All the had power to hurt with was her smile;
But, 'tis a frown of your's for which I die.
Afk why these herds beneath us rush so fast

On the brown fea-ware's firanded heaps to feed? Winter, like you, with holds their wish'd repaft, And,robb'd of genial grafs, they broufe on weed. Mark with what tuneful hafte Sheleila flows,

To mix its wid'ning ftream in Donnan's lake; Yet, fhould fome dam the current's courfe oppofe, It must, per force, a lefs lov'd paffage take. Born, like your body, for a fpirit's claim,

Trembling, I wait, unfoul'd, till you inspire: God has prepar'd the lamp, and bids it flame; But you, fair Dorna, have with-held the fire, High as yon pine; when you begin to speak, My light'ning heart leaps hopeful at the found; But fainting at the fenfe, falls, void and weak,

And finks and faddens like yon moffy ground. All that I taste, or touch, or fee, or hear,

Nature's whole breadth reminds me but of you; Ev'n heav'n itself would your sweet likeness wear, If, with its power, you had its mercy too.

ABSTRACT FROM PSALM CXIV. WHEN from proud Egypt's hard and cruel hand, High-fummon'd Ifrael fought the promis'd land, The opening fea divided at her call, And refluent Jordan rose, a watʼry wall: Light as met lambs the ftarting hills leap'd wide, And the flow mountains roll'd themselves afide. Why, O thou fea! did thy vaft depth divide? And why, O Jordan! fled thy back'ning tide? Why leapt your lines, ye frighted hills, aftray? And what, O mountains! rent your roots away? Hark! I will tell-proud earth confefs'd her God, And mark'd his wond'rous footsteps as he trod. While bent to bleís, He cheer'd his thirsty flock, And into floods of liquid length diffolv'd the loofening rock.

THE SINGING BIRD.

POPE, in abfence of his pain,
Eafy, negligent, and gay,

With the fair in am'rous vein,
Lively as the smiling day,
Talk'd, and toy'd the hours away,

Tuneful, o'er Belinda's chair,
Finely cag'd, a linnet hung;
Breath'd its little foul in air,

Flutt'ring round its manfion fprung, And its carols fweetly fung. Winding, from the fair one's eye,

On her feather'd slave to gaze; Meant, cry'd Pope, to wing the sky, Yet, a captive all thy days,

How doft thou this mufic raife! Since a prifoner thou can't fing, Sportive, airy, wanton, here, Hadft thou liberty of wing,

How thy melody would cheer! How transport the lift'ning car! No, reply'd the warbling fong.

Rais'd-articulate, and clear!
Now, to wish me free were wrong;
Loftier in my native sphere,

But with fewer friends than here.
Though with grief my fate you fee,
Many a poet's is the fame;
Aw'd, fecluded, and unfree,

Humble avarice of fame,
Keeps 'em fetter'd, own'd, and tame.
To our feeders, they and I

Lend our lives in narrow bound; Perch'd within our owner's eye,

Gay we hop the gilded round, Changing neither note nor ground. For, fhould freedom break our chain,

Though the felf-dependent flight
Would to heav'n exalt our ftrain,

Yet unheard and out of fight,
All our praise were forfeit by't.

A SONG.
GENTLE love, this hour befriend me,
To my eyes refign thy dart;
Notes of melting mufic lend me,
To diffolve a frozen heart.
Chill as mountain fnow her bofom,
Though I tender language ufe,
'Tis by cold indiff'rence frozen,

To my arms, and to my mufe.
See my dying eyes are pleading,

Where a breaking heart appears: For thy pity interceding,

With the eloquence of tears, While the lamp of life is fading,

And beneath thy coldness dies, Death my ebbing pulfe invading, Take my foul into thy eyes.

MY SOUL'S LAST SIGHS,
TO THE DIVINE LOTHARIA.

LET plaintive thoughts in mournful nurubers flow
Profe is too dull for love, too calm for woe.
Has the not bid thee quit thy faithful flame;
Sell her and truth for equipage and name?
Nay, fhe has bid thee go-Whence this delay!
Whence this fond, fruitlefs, ling'ring wish to day!
Lotharia bids thee go-fhe, who alone
Makes all life's future bieffings, means thee nont

Begone then let thy ftruggling heart obey,
And in long distance figh fad life away.
Still, ftill, vain flatt'ring hope misleads defire,
Fed by faint glimm'ring fhoots of glow-worm fire.
What though the fweetly writes to eafe thy grief,
Or points kind comfort by the folded leaf:
Such pity must thy grateful rev'rence move,
But judge it right-nor think compaffion love.
What though each word the marks, like fpring's
soft show'rs,
[flow'rs,
Flows fweet as new-blown breath of op'ning
Such borrow'd founds the need not have apply'd,
Her own, more tuneful, thou too oft has try'd.
To fpeak in mufic ever was her claim,
And all grows harmony that bears that name.
Had'st thou e'er touch'd her heart with one
foft pain,

And blefs'd in loving been belov'd again,
All her cold reafoning doubts had ceas'd to move,
And her whole gen'rous breaft conceiv'd but love.
She who believes not, loves not---Feel thy fate:
Friendship from her pains more than other's hate.
All the kind paffions, wanting one, she'll own;
But, that one wanting, all the rest are none.
Would love and the difperfe the threat'ning ftorm,
Let her believe, and truft, and break through form:
Let her command thy ftay to know fuccefs,
Nor fear the god-like attribute to bless:
Born to distinguish her from womankind,
To court her converse and to take her mind;
Fram'd for her empire, with her image fill'd,
Charm'd by her form, and in her temper skill'd;
Piercing her tim'rous heart's moft fecret thought,
And knowing, and adoring each dear fault,
How art thou pain'd---to find her foft'ning will
Held against love by ev'ry guard of skill!
How art thou doom'd to lengths of op'ning woe,
Should the feel love-yet fear to tell thee fo?

If the diftrufts thy truth---all hope must fall,
Doubting her pow'r, the difbelieves thee all.
And none who doubts her lover dares to love.
Go, then---to climes cold as her heart remove;
A diftant fate thy gloomy choice prefers,
Prefent thou can'ft not live and not live hers.
Farewell, kind, cautious, unresolving fair!
To hear the blefs'd will charm amidst despair.
'Tis death to go---'tis more than death to stay,
Reft will be fooneft reach'd the first dark way.
Ne'er may'st thou know a pain; ftill cheerful be,
Nor check life's comforts, with one thought of me.

TO MR. JAMES THOMSON,

On bis afking my advice to what Patron be should addrefs bis Poem, called Winter.

SOME peers have noble skill to judge, 'tis true,
Yet, no more profpect bounds the mufe's view:
Firm, in your native ftrength, thus greatly fhewn,
Slight fuch delufive props, and ftand alone:
Fruitless dependance oft has prov'd too late,
That greatness dwells not always with the great.
Patrons are nature's nobles, not the ftate's,
And wit's a title no broad feal creates : [flow,
Een kings, from whofe high fource all honours
Are poor in pow'r when they would fouls bestow.

He who stoops fafe beneath a patron's fhade,
Shines, like the moon, but by a borrow'd aid:
Truth fhould, unbiafs'd, free and open fteer,
Strong as heav'n's heat, and as its brightness clear
Heedlefs of fortune, then, look down on state,
Balanc'd within by merit's confcious weight:
Divinely proud of independent will,
Prince of your wifhes live a fov'reign, ftill;
Oh! fwell not, then, the bofoms of the vain,
With falfe conceit you their protection gain,
Poets, like you, their own protectors ftand,
Plac'd above aid from pride's inferior hand.
Time, that devours a lord's unlafting name,
Shall lend her foundness depth to float your fame:
On verfe like yours no fmiles from pow'r expect,
Born with a worth that doom'd you to neglect.
Yet, would your wit be prais'd-reflect no more,
Let the smooth veil of flatt'ry filk you o'er,
Aptly attach'd, the court's foft climate try;
Learn your pen's duty from your patron's eye.
Ductile of foul each pliant purpose wind,
And, following int'rest close, leave doubt behind :
Then fhall your name ftrike loud the public ear,
For through good fortune virtue's felf fhines clear.
But, in defiance of our tafte---to charm,
And fancy's force with judgment's caution arm,
Disturb with busy thought fo lull'd an age,
And plant ftrong meanings o'er the peaceful page.
Impregnate found with fenfe, teach nature ari,
And warm ev'n winter, 'till it thaws the heart:
How could you thus your country's rules tranf
Yet think of patrons, and presume success!
grefs,

A SONG.
VAINLY now ye ftrive to charm me,

All ye fweets of blooming May;
How can empty funfhine warm me,

While Lotharia keeps away?
Go, ye warbling birds; go, leave me,

Shade, ye clouds, the fmiling fky:
Sweeter notes her voice can give me,
Softer funshine fills her eye.

Thus while I mourn'd, retir'd from hated light, Sleep came, and hid affliction in the night; The night, inftructive to my bold complaint, In a long dream did that sad march repaint, That pomp of tears which did for Sheffield flow, Who lately blacken'd half our streets with woe. There, cry'd a pointing feraph, look! compare! And bluth, forgetful of your light despair! What has this mother loft, as far distress'd Beyond her fex, as late beyond 'em bleft. Son of her foul! her child, by mind and birth, Bright by her fires, and guardian of her worth; Promife of virtues to the rifing age. Yet, ah! how blafted is the lov'd prefage! Think of her lofs, her weight of woe bemoan, And, humbly conscious, sigh not for your own.

ST. MATTHEW, CHAP. VI. Part of the Sermon on the Mount. LET fhining charity adorn your zeal, The nobleft impulfe gen'rous minds can feel: But have a care you take this virtue right, And fhun the glare of the proud hypocrite. Mistaken men! who, fond of public fame, Difgrace the act, while they affect the name! On earth, vain-glorious zeal may meet regard, But heav'n nor owns it, nor vouchsafes reward, Thou, on the contrary, whose pitying breaft Wou'd, as it ought, give ease to the diftreft; Scarce tell thy right hand, what thy left will do, But be at once refolv'd and filent too. Secret, as night, thy pious alms convey; For God, who fees by night, rewards by day.

So, when thy foul approaches God in pray'r, Be not deceiv'd, as thofe falfe zealots are, Who daily into crowded temples prefs, And there, with feign'd devotion, heav'n address; But, when thou pray'ft, all public notice fhun, And, private, to thy inmost closet run: There, clofe and earnest, to thy duty fall, And God will fhow thee that he hears thy call. Swell not thy forms of pray'r with wild defires, Excess of fuel chokes the brightest fires; The erring heathen fo mistake their way, And think they beft are heard who most can fay. But fhun thou this, and know God's piercing eye Sees all thy wants before thy words come nigh. From rifing malice guard thy yielding will, Nor proudly dare to take revenge for ill: Thou must forgive, that God may pardon thee; For none who pities not fhall pitied be.

Milled by av'rice, feck not wealth to gain, By hoarding treasures which are got in vain ; Deceitful riches, which the moth destroys, Which ruft confumes, or the bold thief enjoys! In heav'n's high ftorehouse, let your heaps be laid, A wealth which no destroyer can invade; No moth there enters, ruft corrupts not there, Nor plund'ring thief alarms the owner's care: Safe, therefore, in that place, your treasures lay; For where your riches are, your heart will stay.

Secure of heav'n's regard, live free from care, Nor toil, life's common comforts to prepare:

Banish vain forecast for thy needful gain,
Nor let meat, drink, and clothing, give thee pain,
Obferve the fowls-they neither reap, nor fow,
Yet find their wants fupply'd, where'er they go.
Look on the lilies of the ripening field:
No toil of theirs does those sweet colours yield;
Yet was not Solomon, when dreft to please,
So gloriously adorn'd as one of these.
If, therefore, God fo feeds the feather'd train,
So clothes the grass, which withers on the plai,
How much more careful will he be of you,
O, faithless man! who yet diftrufts him too!

TO THE LOVELY MRS. H- -E, On ber Defcent from the firft Saxon Kings of our ad HE, fweet name! whofe princely meaning shows,

[flow, From what high fpring your blood's rich curre With needlefs awe, reminds us of your race, Since heav'n has ftampt dominion on your face. Still in your fov❜reign form, diftin&tly live All royal rights your father kings could give. In your commanding air, we mark their state, And, in your words, their wisdom and th weight.

Warm in your noble breast, their courage lies, And all their pow'er and mercy in your eyes,

THE GARDEN WINDOW.
HERE, Amanda, gently bending,

Sweetly penfive, loves to lean
O'er the groves, her fight extending

Through the walks that fhoot between;
Plac'd, fays fhe, within this window

Screen'd, I diftant charms furvey, Taught by poor deceiv'd Olindo, Nothing's fafe that looks too gay. Here, I view, in soften'd shadings,

Am'rous flow'r to flow'r incline, Toq remote to mourn their fadings, When with hanging heads they pine. Here I smell the fragrant breezes,

Safe from ev'ning's chilly blaft;
Here the noonday funfhine pleases,
Fearless when 'twill overcast.
Hence I hear the tempeft rising,
See the grovy greatness shake,
Ev'ry diftant ill defpifing,

While I every good partake.
So commanding life's gay garden,

Let me thornlefs wear the rofe;
Choice like mine let fashion pardon,
Tafting charms but shunning woes,

AT SETTING DAY.-A SONG.
SINCE founding drums, and rifing war,
Invite my love to danger,
I'll afk of every smiling ftar

To shield my roving ranger.
While o'er the field, unfearing woundi
You prefs the foe retreating,

I'll trace the dear remember'd bounds
Of our more gentle meeting.
I'll pafs whole days in yon fweet grove,
Where first thy tongue deceiv'd me,
When, lift'ning dumb, I blush'd my love,
And no fear'd abfence griev'd me.
On ev'ry bank thy fide hath preft,

I'll fleep, and dream I'm near thee;
And each fweet bird, that ftrains its breast,
Shall wake my hopes to hear thee.
To all our haunts I will repair,

And cold on yon bleak mountain,
Trace all thy once trod footfteps there,
And weep o'er each fad fountain.
There will I teach the trees to wear
Thy name, in foft impreffion,
And borrow fighs from ev'ning air,
Tofwell my foul's confeflion.

EPILOGUE,

For a Lady who acted Eudocia, in the Siege of Damaf-
cus, reprefented at the Duke of Bedford's at Woburn.
I've heard of maids, who first resolve to fast,
And then weigh arguments, when facts are paft;
Young, though my reafon is not fo, it firay'd;
By: first found pleadings for the part I play'd.
Play'd, faid I,-fecond thought that word re-
tracts;

Fancies and follies play, but paffion acts:
Paffion! the fpring that all life's wheels employs,
Winds up the working thought-and heightens
joys.
[blame;
Paflion! the great man's guide, the poor man's
The foldier's laurel, and the figher's flame.
Paffion that leads the grave, impels the gay,
Bids the wife tremble, and the fool betray.
Ev'n at this hour, what's here our pattime made,
Gives the court business, and the kingdom trade;
When factions quarrel, or when statesmen fall,
Each does but act his part at paffion's call.
Like our's, to night, Lord Paffion fets their tafk;
Their fears, hopes, flatt'ries, all are paflion's
mafque.

The world's wide stage, for this one practice, fill'd,
Sees fome act nobly, others play unskill'd.
Triflers and fmarts, who toy time's dream away,
Şots, beaux, and hounds of party, thefe but play.
Sons of their country's hope, fublimely rack'd
For other's reft.-Thefe do not play, but act.
Who play the poorest parts?-the bought, the
vain,

[juft,

The light believer, and the perjur'd swain ;
The dull dry joker, the coarfe ill-bred bear,
The friends of folly, and the foes of care.
Who act their parts with praife-the firm, the
Who fell no fentiments, and break no trust;
The learn'd, the foft, the focial, and the kind,
The faithful lover, and the plain good mind.
Such the best actors-form'd for honour's stage!
Who play no farces, and difgrace no age.
Eut copying nature, with true tafte, like ours,
cafe, and are pleas'd, and wing the guiltlefs
hours.

APOLOGY FOR DEATH.

WHENCE this reluctance, when we cease to run
Life's flow fad race, and leaves its toy unwon?
Death's but our tide of ebb, to that dark sea,
Time's fhorelefs fwallower, void eternity!
'Tis relt from labour-'tis efcape from care;
'Tis fhunn'd oppreffion, and reliev'd despair.
'Tis but to rediffolve to formless flow,
And join the mingled mass, that feels no woe.
Fluid to fade, as all things round us do,
Or from old being launch, to find out new.
Emerging, or emerg'd, life rolls away,
Foams into note, or flattens to decay.
Round, with unceasing wheel, diftinction glides,
And through time's maze, in fhort fucceffion flides:
Flames its hot hour, like humbler household fires,
Shines but to leave us, and in ufe expires.

'Tis the flash'd fpark of thought, that bursts te

fight,

Strains foon, and big, and rushes into night :
So the proud ftorm, that frights us with its roar,
Breathes itself weary, and is heard no more.
See that foft flow'r, whofe fighs perfume the gales
Blooms into duft, and its fnuff'd life exhales!
All nature heaves, and fets, like human breath,
And life's loofe links but ftretch the chain of death.
Why then does erring fancy fright the mind?
Why call that cruel, nature meant for kind?
Who knows but fates we tremble at may blefs,
And length of happiest life be found distress?
Murder! that blast of thought, that bane of law,
The good man's horror, and ev'n villain's awe!
Murder! that nature dreads, and confcience flies,
Perhaps but fpurs us to fome waiting prize!

Elfe, why fhould creature ftill with creature jar?
And clash'd existence wage eternal war?
Beat bleeds by beaft; fishes on fishes prey;
And birds act murder with more wafte than they;
Ev'n the sweet thrush, that bribes us with her fong,
To guard her dread of death from beaks more
ftrong,

Sav'd from the kite, ftrait bloodier grows than he
And fuaps the fhiv'ring infect from the tree.
Life ftarts but up, to answer death's due call,
And one myfterious darkness wraps us all!

PASSING A LADY,

IN THE PARK, WITHOUT SEEING HER. So flide our comforts by, unmark'd, unknown, While our ill-fate comes felt, and all our own! Too cruel world! where things we wou'd refufe, We start upon--and, what we wish we lose! And yet Lotharia would be hid in vain, She cannot be conceal'd whom thoughts retaim Air, and Lotharia, every where are found; Held by our breath and to our being bound! Darkness itself wants pow'r to cover friends, Whom the foul dwells with, and the fenfe attends

TO THE LADY THAT LAUGHS,

AT DYING IN METAPHOR.

AND why, fair trifler, does that meaning eye
Smile in contempt, when lovers (wear they dic