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Oh my rapt foul fits trembling in my eyes,
Starting, impatient, at her pow'rful name :
Dearer than life, to that fweet found it flies,

And health rides rofy on the living flame.
Wak'd into fudden strength, I blaze again,

Love, the restorer, drefs'd in Clio's fmile, Triumph'd o'er nature, gave delight to pain, Sweeten'd affliction, and could death beguile. May joys unnumber'd, as the charmer's fweets, Bless this revolving day's eternal round; Till the proud world its dawn with rapture greets, Confcious 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 fweet birth, the first of May. Britain, illuftrious 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? Sure fhe was heav'nly grac'd; for to this hour, After fuch length of ages roll'd away, Fame of her charms, augments her fexed pow'r, And her thought's luftre gives our wits their (way.

TO A LADY,

DESIRING HER LETTERS MIGHT NOT BE
EXPOSED.

No! thou best foul that e'er this body knew,
Unhappy 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 fhocking caution kills,
And, in one meaning, fpots me o'er with ills.
Silent, as facred lamps, in bury'd urns,
The confcious flame of lovers inward burns:
Life fhould be torn, and racks be stretch'd in vain,
And vary'd tortures tire their fruitless pain,
Ere but a thought of mine fhould do thee wrong,
Or fpread thy beauties on the public tongue.

Yet thou canst fear me-oh! be loft the fhame,
Nor heap difhonour on my future name!
Have I been never lov'd?-yet, cruel, tell,
Whom I betray'd to thee, though lov'd fo well?
Take thy fweet mischief back, their charms erafe,
Oh! leave me poor, but never think me bafe.
Not e'en when death fhall veil thy flarry eyes,
Shall thy dear letters from my afhes rife;
Fix'd to my heart, the grave fhall give 'em room
To charm my waking foul in worlds to come.
While in my verfe, with far more faint essay,
Thy wonders I to after times convey;
Tell thy vaft heav'n of fweets, and fing thy name,
Till, fir'd by thee, whole kingdoms catch thy flame.

EPITAPH 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,

Then void and wafte eternity fhall 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 ftones to live.
From your creating hand a war may flow,
And your warm ftrokes 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 fnatch the living fire,
And limn th' ideas which thofe eyes infpire;
Strong to your burning circle to confine
That awe-mix'd fweetness, and that air divine;
That sparkling foul, which lightens from within,
And breaks in unspoke meanings through her skin.
This, if you can-hard task, and yet unprov'd!
Then shall you be adorn'd, as now belov'd.
Then fhall your high-afpiring colours find
The art to picture thought and paint the wind:
Then fhall you give air shape, imprison 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-fhine hours on hours away, Bleft but to fee thofe roofs which cover'd you, And watch'd beneath what ftar 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 paffion 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 refuse, And bids my voice describe my foul's alarms.

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

But when I mifs'd you, and took boat again, The fympathetic fun condol'd my woe; Drew in his beams, to mourn my pity'd pain And bid the fhadow'd ftream benighted flow.

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Sudden, the weeping skies unfluic'd their store, And torrents of big tears unceasing shed; Sad I drove downward to a flooded shore, And, difappointed, 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 lofs defcribe. TO THE SAME. YES---now 'tis time to die---defpair comes on;

THE CHANGE;

TO THE LOVELY CAUSE OF IT.

SWEET enflaver! can you tell,
Ere I learnt to love fo 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 fenfe can give,
And now, indeed, I feel I live.

Oh! what pangs his breaft 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 fubjection!
Aching hope! and fear encreafing!
Struggling paffions, never ceafing!
Wishing! trembling! foul adoring!
Ever bleft, and still imploring.

Let the dull, the cold, and tame,
All thofe dear diforders blame;
Tell 'em that in honour's race,
Charm'd by fome fuch heav'nly face,
Lóvers always foremost ran;
Love's a fecond foul to man.
Eafe is languid, low, and bafe;
Love excites a generous chafe :
Glory! wealth ambition! wit!
Thoughts for boundless empire fit!
All at love's approach are fir'd,
Bent more ftrong, and never tir'd,
He who feels not love's sweet pain
Lives at eafe-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 fhades 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 fparr'd excitements wake,
And fortune charms me for your fake.
Oh! I cry-'twere heaven poffeft,
To make her great who made me blest.
In the morning when I rife,
If the fun-fhine ftrikes my eyes,
All that pleases in his view,
Is my hope to look on you.

When the fable fweep of night
Drowns diftin&ion from my fight,
I no inward darkness find;
You are day-light to my mind.

All my dreams are lives of joy,
Which, in waking, I deftroy:
You, a flave to custom made,
Are of forins and rules afraid :
But your happier image, free

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

A SONG.

On! 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 pain.
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 1 fhun;
Blind, I hear I am undone.

A SONG.

Now ponder well, ye husbands dear,
The fate of wives, too bright;
A woeful caufe 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 fmiling 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 ftretch, and yawn, and tire, And hum their fouls to flecp.

HINT FROM SOME OLD VERSES, On a Stone in Stepney Churchwall. Two thousand years, ere Stepney had a name, In Carthage walls I fhar'd the punic fame; There to the ftrongeft, added strength I lent, And proudly propp'd the world's best 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 fculpture lies, And moulders, like the graves which round me rife. [claim,

Oh think, blind mortals! what frail duft you And laugh at wealth, wit, beauty, pow'r, and fame;

Short praise, can fleeting hopes like yours supply, Since times, and tongues, and tow'rs, and empires 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,

Oh! my raft 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 rofy on the living flame.
Wak'd into fudden strength, I blaze again,

Love, the restorer, drefs'd in Clio's fmile, 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, Blefs this revolving day's eternal round; Till the proud world its dawn with rapture greets, Confcious 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? Sure she was heav'nly grac'd; for to this hour, After fuch length of ages roll'd away, Fame of her charms, augments her fexed 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,
Unhappy 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 fhocking caution kills,
And, in one meaning, fpots me o'er with ills.
Silent, as facred lamps, in bury'd urns,
The confcious flame of lovers inward burns:
Life fhould be torn, and racks be stretch'd in vain,
And vary'd tortures tire their fruitless pain,
Ere but a thought of mine fhould do thee wrong,
Or fpread thy beauties on the public tongue.

Yet thou canft fear me-oh! be loft the fhame,
Nor heap difhonour on my frture name!
Have I been never lov'd?-yet, cruel, tell,
Whom I betray'd to thee, though lov'd fo well?
Take thy fweet mifchief back, their charms erafe,
Oh! leave me poor, but never think me bafe.
Not e'en when death fhall veil thy farry eyes,
Shall thy dear letters from my afhes rife;
Fix'd to my heart, the grave fhall give 'em room
To charm my waking foul in worlds to come.
While in my verfe, with far more faint effay,
Thy wonders I to after times convey;
Tell thy vaft heav'n of fweets, and fing thy name,
Till, fir'd by thee, whole kingdoms catch thy flame.

EPITAPH 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,

Then void and wafte eternity fhall 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 ftones to live.
From your creating hand a war may flow,
And your warm ftrokes 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 fnatch the living fire,
And limn th' ideas which thofe eyes inspire;
Strong to your burning circle to confine
That awe-mix'd fweetnefs, and that air divine;
That sparkling foul, which lightens from within,
And breaks in unspoke meanings through her skin.
This, if you can-hard task, and yet unprov'd!
Then fhall you be adorn'd, as now belov'd.
Then fhall your high-aspiring colours find
The art to picture thought and paint the wind:
Then fhall you give air fhape, imprison 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-fhine hours on hours away, Bleft but to fee those roofs which cover'd you, And watch'd beneath what ftar you fleeping lay. Launch'd on the fmiling ftream, which felt my hope,

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

To tell my dear, my foul-disturbing mufe, (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 tranfports your last letter gave, What heav'ns were open'd in your foft complaint; To tell what pride I take, to be your flave, And how triumphant love difdains restraint.

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

Sudden, the weeping skies unfluic'd their store,
And torrents of big tears unceasing fhed;
Sad I drove downward to a flooded fhore,
And, difappointed, hung my dripping head.

Landed at length, 1 fable coffee drink,
And ill furrounded by a noisy tribe,
Scornful of what they do, or fay, or think,
I, rapt in your dear heav'n, my lofs defcribe.
TO THE SAME.
YES---now 'tis time to die---despair comes on;

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She fets--fair light, that fhow'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, crimeless murd'rer! gives me real death.

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

That ftains fuch goodness with a purpos'd fault.
Soft as her 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 tranfport, through each art'ry,
float;

Her ftep is dignity, by pity check'd;

At once the fans defire and plants refpect. Unconscious of her charms, fhe dreams of none, And doubling other's praises fhuns her own. Modeft in pow'r, as kneeling angels pray, Noifelefs as night's foft fhade, though bright as day.

Wife unaffumingly; ferenely deep,

Eafy 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 fuch blifs,
Yet live fuperior to a lofs like this!
Where will the next her thousand conquefts make?
On what new climate will her fun-fhine break?
Where will the next (fweet tafker of my care :)
Teach our charm'd sex, to hope, to with, to dare?
Far from her fruitless guardian's watchful eye,
What may the hear! what answer: oh! I'll die.
Blefs'd by her fight-time's race were one short
stage;

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

A SONG.

CLIO fmiling, foul-invader!

Soft amufer of my days,

Be my filent paffion's aider,

Teach my tongue to speak thy praise. Thou, like heroes, fcarr'd all over,

Wanting room to fuffer more; Pil'd with praise, can'st hear no lover Tell thee ought, untold before. Truth, with modeft bounds contented, Rightly praising thee, must say, More than falfehood e'er invented, When the wideft went astray.

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

THE facred nine, firft fpread their golden wings,
In praise of virtue, heroes, and of kings:
Chafte were their lays, and ev'ry verse design'd
To foften nature, and exalt the mind.
Loosely the moderns live, and loosely write,
And woo their muse, as mistrefs, for delight.
Thick in their lays obfcenities abound,

As weeds fpring plenteous in the rankeft ground:
All who write verfe, 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 reft?
Who will be here the stranger's guide,
And lead her to be bleft?

Seek, faid the whispering mufe, fome fair
Who does herfeif thofe virtues thare
Of England's beauteous race;

Which most Alzira grace.

One who has taste as nobly ftrong,
And charms as foftly sweet,
Will guard her fifter 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 fues,
Thefe wits are the bane of your charms;
Beauty play'd against reason will certainly lofe,
Warring naked with robbers in arms.
Young Damon, defpis'd for his plainnefs of parts,
Has worth that a woman should prize;
He'll run the race out, though he heavily starts,
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 remove,
'Tis a ftage he but takes in his way.

THE RECONCILIATION.
SICK of the worthlefs world, and courting reft,
My fullen foul, with penfive weight oppreft,
Difturb'd and mournful fought the filent fhade,
And fed reflection in the breezy glade :
Stretch'd on the graffy margent of a brook,
Whofe murm'ring fellowship my mind partook,
Actively idle I repining lay,

Gaz'd on the flood and figh'd the stream away.

Who knows, I cry'd, what course thou hast to

país, [grafs? Sweet ftream, that thou creep'ft foftly through this How wilt thou flow!-Anon, perhaps, flid hence, Thy deep'ning channel fiils forme moated fence, Hems in fome farm, where homely ruftics meet, And their fweet bread, prize of hard labour, cat; Thence, through fome lord's delightful garden, led, Thou may'ft thy vegetative influence spread; Where, as through fragrant beds, thy purlings flide, The grateful flow'rs fhall kifs 'em as they glide: There, charm'd and ling'ring, thou may'st wish to stay,

And, hoarfely murm'ring, roll difpleas'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 fhall at once furprife,
Crofs whofe broad fhoulders thrown, and tum-
bling o'er,
[roar.
Thy frighted ftream fhall rush with unavailing
Next may thy filver current's brightness die,
And muddily fome ftagnate fen fupply;
Where shadow'd reeds in thy flow ftream fhall
shake,
[make :
And floods fly trembling from the gloom they
Frighted, are glad to 'fcape this horrid place,
Thou may'ft wind fhort, and new-direct thy race,
Through verdant meads, o'erjoy'd, may'st dan-
cing go,

*Till cattle fip thy whirpools, as they flow:
Thence, for protection of thy ruffled charms,
Thou may'ft rufh fwift to fome great lover's arms;
Some ftately ftream by keely courtship preft,
And mark'd with wealth's proud furrows on his
breaft:
[brace,"
Grave Thames may next receive thy mix'd em-
And fam'd Augufta fee 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, 'Midft endless changes, and in endless ftrife, Glide, with impatience, through unknown events, 'Till nature afks repofe and death confents.

Why then is fuch a life fo much defir'd? By what purfuits is vain ambition fir'd? Friendship is loft on earth; love goes aftray; And men, like beafts, each on the other prey: Ev'n the foft fex their downy bofoms hide With inward artifice or outward pride. Beauty's fpoil'd fhafts no more the foul can hit, Dull'd by grofs folly or misguided wit. Nothing is now worth wifhing for on earth, And death is grown a much lefs woe than birth While thus I mourn'd--back roll'd th' aftonish'd brook,

[fhook;

The trees bow'd down, the earth beneath me
All heav'n defcended to the glowing ground,
And radiant terror dazzling fhone around:
Blind with the ftrong refulgence, fix'd I lay
Bury'd in brightnefs 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 blefs'd my fight,
But ftrove in vain to ftem the tide of light;
Still as I rais'd my eyes, their balls ftruck fire,
And wat'ry gufhings wept the rash defire:
The unfeen 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 mufic in the wind':
I come, continues fhe, to bring thee peace,
To bid thy diffidence in friendship ceafe;
Again to reconcile thee to mankind,
New-wing thy transports, and unclog thy mind;
To guide thy wand'ring choice, to find that joy

There lives a charmer, whom divinely fir'd
E'en her whole fex's virtues have infpir'd;
Where all that's manly joins with all that's fweet,
And in whofe breath engrofs'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 defpifes fame.
Her unaffected charms what words can paint?
She looks an angel, and the fpeaks a faint:
While fparkling gaynefs wantons in her eye,
In her wife foul the laughing Cupids die.
A thousand graces round her person play,
And all the mufes mark her fancy's way:
To hear her speak, the foul with rapture fills,
Her looks alarm-but when the writes the kill
Rife, then, and meet her, as the this way frays,
And thy own wonder flrall outfpeak my praise.
The goddess vanifh'd to her native skies,
And the recover'd fhade 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 fev'n have fhone, All outfhin'd by Delia's eyes: Winters three times fev'n are gone,

All whofe fnows her breaft fupplies!
Dance we then the cheerful round,

Mufic might have stay'd away;
She but fpeaking, organs found:
She but fmiling, angels play.
'Tis her birth-day-let it blaze;

Born to charm and form'd for blifs,
Live she lov'd a world of days,

Ev'ry day as blefs'd as this, Let her beauty not increase ;

Too, too strong, already there; But let heav'n augment her peace, 'Till fhe's happy as she's fair.

THE GLOVE.

TELL me, fweet glove! what name the charmer bears,

Whose downy hand thy fnowy cov'ring wears?

'Tis a dear name I am forbid to tell, But these distinguish'd marks may paint her well: She gently awful, winningly fevere, Charms when the fpeaks, yet rather loves to hear; Wife as a god; as fancy'd angels fair; Lovely as light, and foft as upper air. Enough, fweet glove! by this plain picture taught,

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