THE DUCHESS OF RUTLAND.

ON READING SOME EXTRAVAGANT COMPLIMENTS IN POETRY ON HER GRACE.

O FICTION! rich in varied flowers,

Collected in wild fairy bowers,

Does Rutland claim thy skill?

eyes

"Her lips are rofes!" and her "
"The light refin'd by gems,-fupplies!"
"Her fmile fuperior still!"

Ah Fiction!-take thy gifts away,
Some other beauty to array;

By Rutland ill they're borne :-
The rainbow's hues, however bright,
Impart no ftrength to day's beft light :-

-The Truth will most adorn!

HESPER.

EPIGRA M.

AETURNED WITH A MANUSCRIPT COMEDY TO THE

AUTHOR.

YOUR Comedy I've read-my friend,
And like the half you pilfer'd-beft!
But fure the Drama you might mend-
Take courage man--and fteal the reft!

HESPER.

VERSES

VERSES

Br GEORGE KEATE, ESQ. TO CAPTAIN BLIGH,

On reading his Narrative of the Mutiny on board the BOUNTY; and of his Paffage in an open Boat across the PACIFIC OCEAN.

THOSE who their dubious tract thro' Oceans urge,
And face the perils of the changeful main,
Who brave the tempeft's howl and foaming furge,

(So flow'd Great Ifrael's harp in plaintive strain.)

Such, God of Nature! mark thy dread control,
Curbing, or letting loose, the warring wind,

In terrors bid the waves licentious roll,

Or in a calm their chrystal surface bind!

By turns anxiety, fear, hope, dismay,
The mariner's conflicting bofom rend,
Whilft dangers black with fate obftruct his way,
And half his wonted fortitude unbend!

Yet fcenes far more fevere may meet his eye,
Scenes over which humanity must weep,

When Mutiny, renouncing ev'ry tie,

Makes man to man more hostile than the Deep.

With the fell spirit of the first-born wretch,

Who 'gainst a brother rais'd his murd'rous hand,
When Pow'r ufurp'd, its rebel arm dares stretch,
Th' unaided ruler can no more command.

Then ev'ry chain of focial life is broke,
Afloat each paffion of the alien'd heart,
E'en kindeft deeds recall'd but more provoke,
As more the traitor's pain'd by mem❜ry's smart.
Say, gallant Sailor! what were thy alarms,

When round thy bed the ruffian band appear'd!
Guilt in each look, binding thy captiv'd arms,

And led by One thy foft'ring hand had rear'd? Then turn'd adrift'upon the ruthless wave,

Far, far remov'd from ev'ry friendly fhore,
To meet thro' ling'ring death a certain grave,
Or combat horrors fcarce conceiv'd before?

Say, how remembrance pictur'd to thy view,
Thofe ties of love no distance can efface!
How to thy agonizing fancy drew

Thy widow'd partner, and thy helpless race!

No-fhift the thought-and rather fay what rays
Of Hope fhot round thee by a Hand Divine,
Bade thee thy fpirits 'midst the struggle raise,
And whisper'd prefervation might be thine!

And

And thine it was! beaming from thee to all
The fame bright hope their drooping ftrength sustain'd
The fuff'rings that opprefs'd could not appal,

And Timor's long-fought coast at last was gain'd ?

With what fenfations did each heart then melt!
The paft, as well as prefènt, feem'd a dream,
Thy mercies, PROVIDENCE! fo ftrongly felt,
As must to life's laft moment be their theme.

No ftranger thou to it ;-for at His fide,

Whose thirst for glory prob'd the Southern Pole
Thy youth adventur'd, each diftress defy'd,
Prov'd on his banner thy own name t'enrol.

O gallant Sailor! urge thy bold career,
If the prophetic Mufe aright foresee,

Thro' feas untry'd thou ftill thy courfe may'ft fteer,
And what Cook was, hereafter Bligh may be.

Where cannot Britain's dauntlefs fails extend?
Go search out tracts and nations yet unknown;
'Midst her proud triumphs some fresh laurels blend,
And with thy country's fame augment thine own.

JEUX

JEUX D'ESPRIT.

LADY A*****.

SAY not that this Lady's cheek
Is lefs vermillion'd than the streak
That on the rofe-bud glows;
Reflecting that the bloom we fee
So fweetly come and go-may be
The Tincture of the Rofe.

LORD D-t

He rifes at noon, and he washes his head,
Eats his dinner at fix, and at nine goes.

LORD E******E.

Made up of impregnated powder and clay,

to bed:

And pufh'd, as hafte made him, half-form'd, into day;
Nature's journeyman fure, when he made him, was drunk,
The head is fo poorly dove-tail'd to the trunk;
Or indeed, being perch'd so awry on the shoulder,
It appears like a new one, cemented with folder.

TUES