Spreads its low smoke in envy's darken'd eye.

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Whence grew fociety, fo wish'd an art, If the mind's elegance betrays the heart? Were it a crime in flashing fouls to rise, And ftrike each other through the meeting eyes? Those op'ning windows had not let in light, Nor stream'd ideas out, to voice the fight.

Why are you form'd so pow'rful in your charms, If beauty ought to fly the with it warms? Vainly did heav'n inspire that tuneful tongue, With notes more sweet than ever seraph sung! If, juftly, all that harmony you hide,. Your mufic ufeless, and its pow'r untry'd. Have wit and eloquence in vain confpir'd, And giv'n you brightness, but to thine retir'd? Muft you be lovelieft, yet be never shown? Than all be wiser, yet be heard by none? Oh, 'tis too delicate!-'tis falfely nice,

To bar the heart against the mind's advice.

But you will say that honour's call you hear;
That fame is tender-reputation dear :
That from the world's malignant blast you fly,
Fear the fool's tongue, and the difcerner's eye.
The spleen of disappointed wishes dread,
Or envy's whispers, by detraction spread?
Alas! what bounds can limit your jetreat?
Where will fought fafety rest your flying feet?
Is there a corner in the globe so new,
That malice will not find as fure as you?

The very fight that shuns, attracts the wrong? And every cenfure fear'd, you force along. [fay, * There's caufe, no doubt, for her retreat, they'll

A fearless innocence had dar'd to stay!"
Scandal has, either way, an edge to strike,
And wounds distinction every where alike :
Superior excellence is doom'd to bear
The ftings of sland'rous hate, and rash despair :
'Tis the due tax your rated merit pays,
And ev'ry judging ear will call it praife.

Think-and be kind-convert this fruitless pain
To a fix'd firmness, and a calm difdain.
Since cautious abfence can no more be free
From false reproach, than present smiles will be,
Diffuse those gifts which heav'n design'd should
blefs,

Nor let their greatness make their pity less.
Indulging freedom ev'ry fear difarm,
And, with a confcious scorn of flander, charm.
Bold in your guarded strength your heart unbind,
And to be fafe-suppose yourself all mind.

Yet needless that! fince such respect you draw,
That ev'n your tenderness is arm'd with awe :
Permitted love would filently admire,
And a foft rev'rence tremble through defire;
The warmest wishes, when inspir'd by you,
Strike---but as heav'nly inspirations do..
The op'ning heart makes room for joys refin'd,
And ev'ry gross idea thrinks behind.

notes,

The marry'd harmony, united, floats;
Two charms, so join'd, that they compose but one;
Like heat and brightness from the self-fame fun.

The wishful viol would its wealth retain,
And, sweetly confcious, hugs the pleasing pain,
Envious, forbids the warbling joys to roll,
And, murm'ring inward, fwells its founding foul.

Proud of its charming pow'r, your tunciul bow Floats o'er the chords majeftically flow; Careless and foft, calls out a tide of art, And, in a storm of music, drowns the heart.

So when that god, who gave you all your skill To angel forms (like yours) intrusts his will, Calm they defcend, fome new-meant world te

found,

THE CHANGE;

TO THE LOVELY CAUSE OF IT.

SWEET enflaver! can you tell,
Ere I learnt to love so well,

How my hours had wings to move,

All unbufied by my love!

"Tis amazement now to me,
What could then a pleasure be!
But you, like God, new sense can give,
And now, indeed, I feel I live.

Oh! what pangs his breast alarm,
Whom foul and body join to charm!
Endless transports dance along,
Sweetly foft! or nobly strong!
Flaming fancy! cool reflection!
Fierce defire! and aw'd subjection!
Aching hope! and fear encreasing!
Struggling paffions, never ceasing!
Wishing! trembling! foul adering!
Ever blest, and still imploring.

Let the dull, the cold, and tame,
All those dear diforders blame;
Tell 'em that in honour's race,
Charm'd by fome such heav'nly face,
Lovers always foreniost ran;
Love's a second foul to man.
Eafe is languid, low, and base;
Love excites a generous chase:
Glory! wealth! ambition! wit!
Thoughts for boundless empire fit!
All at love's approach are fir'd,
Bent more strong, and never tir'd,
He who feels not love's sweet pain
Lives at cafe-but lives in vain !

Little dream you what is due,
Angel form! to love and you:
'Tis from you I joy poffefs;
'Tis by you my grief grows lefs :
Sadly penfive, when alone,
I the shades of life bemoan;
If fome voice your name impart,
Care lies lighten'd at my heart;
Ev'ry woe difarms its fting,
And I look down on Britain's king.

When my fancy brings to view
Works which wealth and pow'r can do;
All my fpurr'd excitements wake,
And fortune charms me for your fake.
Oh! I cry-'twere heaven poffeft,
To make her great who made me bleft.

In the morning when I rife,
If the fun-shine strikes my eyes,
All that pleases in his view,
Is my hope to look on you.

When the fable sweep of night
Drowns diftinction from my fight,
I no inward darknefs find;
You are day-light to my mind.

All my dreams are lives of joy,
Which, in waking, I destroy:
You, a flave to cuftom made,
Are of forms and rules afraid :
But your happier image, free
From fantastic tyranny:

Independent, kind, and wife,
Scorns restraint, and knows no ties.
Oh! the dear, the racking pain;
Who that fleeps thus would wake again.

A SONG.

Он! forbear to bid me flight her,
Soul and fenfes take her part;
Could my death itself delight her,
Life should leap to leave my heart.
Strong, though soft, a lover's chain,
Charm'd with woe, and pleas'd with pais.
Though the tender flame were dying,

Love would light it at her eyes;
Or, her tuneful voice applying,

Through my ear my foul surprise.
Deaf, I fee the fate I thun;
Blind, I hear I am undone.

A SONG.

Now ponder well, ye husbands dear,
The fate of wives, too bright;
A woeful cause you have to fear,
Their day will turn to night.
At first all gay, and rais'd with joy,
They charm the poor man's heart;
With Imiling eyes they sport and toy,
And gild the nuptial dart.

But ah! too foon they quench their fire;
(Alas! good hearer, weep)
Then gape, and stretch, and yawn, and tire,
And hum their fouls to fleep.

HINT FROM SOME OLD VERSES,
On a Stone in Stepney Churchwall.

Two thousand years, ere Stepney had a name,
In Carthage walls I shar'd the punic fame;
There to the strongest, added strength I lent,
And proudly propp'd the world's beft ornament
Now to cold Britain a tern transport thrown,
I piece a church-yard pile unmark'd, unknown:
Stain'd, and half funk in dirt, my sculpture lies,
And moulders, like the graves which round se
rife.
[claim
Oh! think, blind mortals! what frail dust you
And laugh at wealth, wit, beauty, pow'r, and
fame;
Short praise, can fleeting hopes like yours fupply,
Since times, and tongues, and tow'rs, and empus
die.

ON CLIO'S BIRTH-DAY.

O'ER the blue violet, while the amorous wind
Bends and perfumes his wings, to fan this day;
Why has pale fickness winter'd o'er my mind,
And, with chill agues, check'd the warmth of
May?

Is it not Clio's birth-day?-Toil of thought!
Height beyond all that e'er ambition trod.
Sum of refin'd defire! by angels taught,
To look, and think, and act a female god!

Oh! my rapt foul fits trembling in my eyes, Starting, impatient, at her pow'rful name: Dearer than life, to that sweet found it flies, - And health rides rosy on the living flame. Wak'd into sudden strength, I blaze again, Love, the restorer, dress'd in Clio's smile, Triumph'd o'er nature, gave delight to pain, Sweeten'd affliction, and could death beguile. May joys unnumber'd, as the charmer's sweets, Bless this revolving day's eternal round; Till the proud world its dawn with rapture greets, ✓ Conscious of her who made it first renown'd. Long-let 'em fay-long ere our father's days, Three thousand years ago, on this sweet day, That Clio, whom contending nations praise, Embloom'd, by her sweet birth, the first of May. Britain, illustrious by the starry lot,

Far in the north, diftinguish'd island, lies, Now known by later names-oh, envy'd spot! Why did the not in our warm climates rife? Jure she was heav'nly grac'd; for to this hour, After fuch length of ages roll'd away, Pame of her charms, augments her sexed pow'r, And her thought's luftre gives our wits their

fway.

TO A LADY,

DESIRING HER LETTERS MIGHT NOT BE
EXPOSED.

No! thou best foul that e'er this body knew,
Jnhappy I may be, but not untrue.
Bleft, or unbleft, my love can ne'er decay,
Nor could I, where I could not love, betray.
Cold, and unjust, the shocking caution kills,
And, in one meaning, spots me o'er with ills.
Silent, as facred lamps, in bury'd urns,
The confcious flame of lovers inward burns:
Life should be torn, and racks be stretch'd in vain,
And vary'd tortures tire their fruitless pain,
Ere but a thought of mine should do thee wrong,
Or fpread thy beauties on the public tongue.

Yet thou canst fear me-oh! be loft the shame,
Nor heap dishonour on my future name!
Have I been never lov'd?-yet, cruel, tell,
Whom I betray'd to thee, though lov'd so well?
Take thy sweet mischief back, their charms erase,
Oh! leave me poor, but never think me base.
Not e'en when death shall veil thy starry eyes,
Shall thy dear letters from my ashes rife;
Fix'd to n.y heart, the grave shall give 'em room
To charm my waking foul in worlds to come.
While in my verse, with far more faint essay,
Thy wonders I to after times convey;
Tell thy vast heav'n of sweets, and fing thy name,
Till, fir'd by thee, whole kingdoms catch thy flame.

ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ ON SIR ISAAC NEWTON.

MORE than his name were lefs.-'Twould feem to fear, [here. He who increas'd heav'n's fame could want it Yet when the funs he lighted up fhall fade, And all the worlds he found are first decay'd;

Then void and waste eternity shall lie, And time and Newton's name together die.

TO MR. DYER, ON HIS ATTEMPTING
CLIO'S PICTURE.

SOUL of your honour'd art! what man can do
In copying nature may be reach'd by you :
Your peopling pencil a new world can give,
And, like Deucalion, teach the stones to live.
From your creating hand a war may flow,
And your warm strokes with breathing action

glow:

But, from that angel form to catch the grace
And kindle up your ivory with her face;
All unconfum'd to snatch the living fire,
And limn th' ideas which those eyes inspire;
Strong to your burning circle to confine
That awe-mix'd sweetness, and that air divine;
That sparkling foul, which lightens from within,
And breaks in unspoke meanings through her ikin.
This, if you can-hard task, and yet unprov'd:
Then shall you be adorn'd, as now belov'd.
Then shall your high-aspiring colours find
The art to picture thought and paint the wind:
Then shall you give air shape, imprifon space,
And mount the painter to the maker's place.

WHITEHALL STAIRS.

FROM Whitehall Stairs, whence oft, with distant view,

I've gaz'd whole moon-shine hours on hours away, Blest but to fee those roofs which cover'd you, And watch'd beneath what star you fleeping lay.

Launch'd on the smiling stream, which felt my hope,

And danc'd and quiver'd round my gliding boat, I came this day to give my tongue free scope, And vent the paflion which my looks denote.

To tell my dear, my foul-disturbing muse, (But that's a name can speak but half her charms) How my full heart does my pen's aid refufe,

And bids my voice describe my foul's alarms.

To tell what transports your laft letter gave, What heav'ns were open'd in your foft complaint; To tell --what pride I take, to be your slave, And how triumphant love disdains restraint.

But when I miss'd you, and took boat again,
The sympathetic fun condol'd my woe;
Drew in his beams, to mourn my pity'd pain
And bid the shadow'd stream benighted flow.

Sudden, the weeping skies unsluic'd their store,
And torrents of big tears unceasing shed;
Sad I drove downward to a flooded shore,
And, disappointed, hung my dripping head.

Landed at length, I fable coffee drink,
And ill furrounded by a noify tribe,
Scornful of what they do, or fay, or think,
I, rapt in your dear heav'n, my loss describe.

TO THE SAME.
Yns---now 'tis time to die---defpair comes on;
Who keeps the body when the foul is gone?

She fets---fair light, that show'd me all my joy, And, like the fun's, her abfence must destroy. She, who once wept my fancy'd loss of breath, Now, crimelefss murd'rer! gives me real death.

Yet have a care, touch'd heart, nor figh one thought,

That stains fuch goodness with a purpos'd fault.
Soft as ker tears, her gentle meanings move;
Her foul sheds sweetness though her look is love.
Her voice is music, tun'd to heav'n's low note;
Her touch bids transport, through each art'ry,
float;

Her step is dignity, by pity check'd;
At once the fans defire and plants respect.
Unconscious of her charms, she dreams of none,
And doubling other's praises shuns her own.
Modest in pow'r, as kneeling angels pray,
Noifeless as night's sost shade, though bright as

day.

Wise unaffumingly; ferenely deep,
Easy as air, and innocent as fleep:
Blooming like beauty, when adorn'd for fin;
Yet like the bud unblown all blush within.

O! 'tis impoffible, to quit such bliss,
Yet live superior to a loss like this!
Where will she next her thousand conquests make?
On what new climate will her fun-fhine break?
Where will the next (fweet tasker of my care!)
Teach our charm'd sex, to hope, to wish, to dare?
Far from her fruitless guardian's watchful eye,
What may the hear! what answer! oh! I'll die.
Bless'd by her fight-time's race were one short
stage;

She gone---one widow'd moment were an age.

A SONG.

CLIO! smiling, foul-invader!
Soft amufer of my days,
Be my filent paffion's aider,
Teach my tongue to speak thy praife.
Thou, like heroes, scarr'd all over,
Wanting room to fuffer more:
Pil'd with praise, can'st hear no lover
Tell thee ought, untold before.
Truth, with modest bounds contented,
Rightly praising thee, must say,
More than falsehood e'er invented,
When the widest went aftray.

WRIT ON A BLANK LEAF OF AN OB-
SCENE POЕМ.

THE facred nine, first spread their golden wings,
In praise of virtue, heroes, and of kings :
Chaste were their lays, and ev'ry verse design'd
To foften nature, and exalt the mind.
Loofely the moderns live, and loosely write,
And woo their muse, as mistress, for delight.
Thick in their lays obscenities abound,
As weeds spring plenteous in the rankest ground;
All who write verse, to taint a guiltless heart,
Are vile profaners of the facred art.

Cloy'd the fick reader from the work retires) And e'er the writer dies his fame expires.

TO MRS. T-T.

WHERE in this land (Alzira cry'd)
Shall Indian virtues reit?
Who will be here the stranger's guide,
And lead her to be blest?

Seek, faid the whispering muse, fome fair
Of England's beauteous race;.
Who does herself those virtues share
Which most Alzira grace.

One who has taste as nobly strong,
And charms as foftly fweet,
Will guard her sister foul from wrong,
While graces graces meet.

I took the mufe's kind advice,
Look'd round the fair and bright,
And found Alzira, in a trice,

Was matchless T-t's right.

A SONG.

O CELIA! be wary when Celadon suet, These wits are the bane of your charms: Beauty play'd against reason will certainly lose, Warring naked with robbers in arms.

Young Damon, despis'd for his plainness of parts Has worth that a woman should prize; He'll run the race out, though he heavily starty

And distance the short-winded wife. The fool is a faint in the temple of love, And kneels all his life there to pray: The wit but looks in, and makes haste to remov 'Tis a stage he but takes in his way.

THE RECONCILIATION.

SICK of the worthless world, and courting reft, My fullen foul, with pensive weight oppreft, Disturb'd and mournful fought the filent shade, And fed reflection in the breezy glade: Stretch'd on the graffy margent of a brook, Whose murm'ring fellowship my mind partook, Actively idle I repining lay,

pafs,

Gaz'd on the flood and figh'd the stream away. Who knows, I cry'd, what course thou halt to [gras Sweet stream, that thou creep'st softly through this How wilt thou flow!-- Anon, perhaps, flid hence, Thy deep'ning channel fills fome moated fence, Hems in fome farm, where homely ruftics meet, And their sweet bread, prize of hard labour, ca:: Thence, through some lord's delightful garden, led, Thou may'st thy vegetative influence spread; Where, as through fragrant beds, thy purlings like, The grateful flow'rs shall kiss 'em as they giide: There, charm'd and ling'ring, thou may't wish to stay,

And, hoarfely murm'ring, roll displeas'd away. But while, with careless pace, thou journey'

flow,

Oft halting to look back at this fair show,

Some precipice, that in close ambush lies,
Thy virgin current shall at once surprise,

Cross whose broad shoulders thrown, and tumbling o'er,

[roar. Thy frighted stream shall rush with unavailing Next may thy filver current's brightness die, And muddily fame ftagnate fen fupply; Where shadow'd reeds in thy flow stream shall shake, [make: And floods fly trembling from the gloom they Frighted, are glad to 'scape this horrid place, Thou may'st wind short, and new-direct thy race, Through gh verdant meads, o'erjoy'd, may'st

cing go,

dan

'Till cattle fip thy whirpools, as they flow: Thence, for protection of thy ruffled charms, Thou may'st rush swift to fome great lover's arms; Some ftately stream by keely courtship prest,

And mark'd with wealth's proud furrows on his breaft:

[brace, Grave Thames may next receive thy mix'd emAnd fam'd Augusta see thy fully'd face; From her wash'd foot thy scatter'd flood may stray, And to the swallowing ocean roll away : There, wasted stream, in wind-driv'n billows tost, Thy oft-chang'd being shall be wholly loft.

So, gentle brook, I cry'd, does human life, "Midst endless changes, and in endless strife, Glide, with impatience, through unknown events, Till nature asks repose and death confents.

brook,

Why then is such a life so much defir'd? By what pursuits is vain ambition fir'd? Friendship is lost on earth; love goes aftray; And men, like beasts, each on the other prey: Ev'n the soft sex their downy bofoms hide With inward artifice or outward pride. Beauty's spoil'd shafts no more the foul can hit, Dull'd by grofs folly or misguided wit. Nothing is now worth wishing for on earth, And death is grown a much less woe than birth. While thus I mourn'd---back roll'd th' aftonish'd [fhook; The trees bow'd down, the earth beneath me All heav'n descended to the glowing ground, And radiant terror dazzling shone around: Blind with the strong refulgence, fix'd I lay Bury'd in brightness and o'erwhelm'd with day. Liften, a found broke out---impatient youth, Liften and mark the voice of facred truth, Rous'd at that name, I would have bless'd my fight, But strove in vain to stem the tide of light; Still as I rais'd my eyes, their balls struck fire, And wat'ry gushings wept the rash defire : → The unseen phantom's voice, fudden and loud, Startled the ear as thunder rends a cloud; ✓ But foft'ning more and more, grew sweet and kind,

And dy'd away like music in the wind: I come, continues she, to bring thee peace, To bid thy diffidence in friendship cease; Again to reconcile thee to mankind, New-wing thy transports, and unclog thy mind; To guide thy wand'ring choice, to find that joy Distrust of which does thy fad hours employ :

There lives a charmer, whom divinely fir'd
E'en her whole sex's virtues have inspir'd;
Where all that's manly joins with all that's sweet,
And in whose breath engross'd perfections meet;
Her mind no confcious pride of merit stains;
O'er her wide foul unfully'd reason reigns:
Blind to her worth, the feels not her own flame,
Enriches merit, yet despises fame.

Her unaffected charms what words can paint?
She looks an angel, and she speaks a faint:
While sparkling gayness wantons in her eye,
In her wife foul the laughing Cupids die.
A thousand graces round her perfon play,
And all the muses mark her fancy's way:
To hear her fpeak, the foul with rapture fills,
Her looks alarm-but when she writes the kills
Rife, then, and meet her, as the this way strays,
And thy own wonder shall outspeak my praife.

The goddefs vanish'd to her native skies,
And the recover'd shade unbarr'd my eyes;
I look'd, and lo! within the honour'd wood,
Lovely Cleora hid in bay leaves stood;
Cleora-but her wonders to reveal,
Were to defcribe what I can only feel!
Now reconcil'd to the shunn'd world i'll live:
Her friendship-joys worth living for can give.

ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF MISS

CARE, be banish'd far away-
Fly, be gone, approach not here:
Mirth and joy demand this day,
Happiest day of all the year!
Summers three times sev'n have shone,
All outshin'd by Delia's eyes :
Winters three times sev'n are gone,
All whose snows her breast supplies!

Dance we then the cheerful round,
Music might have stay'd away;
She but speaking, organs sound:
She but smiling, angels play.
'Tis her birth-day-let it blaze;

Born to charm and form'd for blifs
Live the lov'd a world of days,
Ev'ry day as bless'd as this,
Let her beauty not increase;
Too, too strong, already there;
But let heav'n augment her peace,
'Till she's happy as she's fair.

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