ON A PRETTY YOUNG LADY, WHO APPEARED
MUCH IN PUBLIC.
I DON'T difpute your charms of face,
But can without emotion gaze;
Thus, though we own a picture fine,
Yet who would heed it, if a fign?
OF earthly blifs what most I wish to find,
Is the affection of a kindred mind,
From fair to fair still ceaseless turns my breast,
And feeks a love in which at last to rest.
I boast not fortune's gifts, as little claim
The fplendour of a long-defcended name;
I only boast a heart with paffion mov'd,
That, loving, likewife merits to be lov'd.
Say, Delia, fay, could you for me forego
Of wealth the pleasure, and the pomp of show,
Thefe willingly refign, content to prove
The humbleft fortune with the man you love?
Pleas'd in his pleasure, could you alfo fhare,
And, by dividing, eafe the load of care;
His labours with your tenderness beguile,
And cheer the frowns of fortune with a smile?
Could you, when most forfaken and distrest,
Then clofeft clafp him to your friendly breaft?
And to his woes, when hopeless of relief,
Afford the fympathy of mingl'd grief?
When fick, could you submit my bed to tend?
When dying, fmoothe my paffage to my end?
And to my mem'ry, when departed, true,
My afhes with a tender tear bedew ?
Could you do this, what is there will not I
With patience fuffer, or with courage try?
you I'll bear to live, or dare to die;
For
Life still will fhew, and death confirm me true,
And my last thought fhall fondly dwell on you.
ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.
LIKE fome fair flow'r of tender hue,
That finks, oppreft with early dew,
That rises and that fades at morn,
And almost dies as foon as born:
Scarce granted to the light of day,
Ere fnatch'd, for ever snatch'd away;
For thee, become but newly dear,
Already parents fled the tear.
Happy, who life with honour spend,
Or meet, like thee, an early end!
Next to a life in virtue spent
Is death of one fo innocent.
AH me! oppreft with never-ending woes,
My hopes and wishes center in the tomb.!
When fhall I fink fecurely to repose,
And fleep encircl'd in its friendly gloom?
Long wifh'd in vain, no more I wish for weal,
I only seek the rest of death to prove ;
When I fhall ceafe, for ever cease, to feel
The wounds of fortune, and the pangs of love.
Soon, foon, I hope, that to these clofing eyes
Its last kind office friendship fhall bestow,
Convey me where my honour'd mother lies,
And bid my duft with kindred duft lye low.
Rank on my grave the matted grass shall grow;
The bufy and the gay pass heedless by;
A parting tear, love,-friendship,-shall beftow;
And I at rest from all my troubles lye.
TO THE MEMORY OF THE UNFORTUNATE
ILL-FATED youth! hard was thy lot below;
How few thy years! yet, ah! how full of woe!
How might thy genius have adorn'd thy race!
How thy misfortunes ever must disgrace!
Juft in its gifts to all, impartial Heav'n
To thee had greateft good and evil giv'n,
From common mortals not distinguish'd lefs
By mind, than fate, by talents, than distress:
Wond'rous, but hapless boy, to thee we owe
Whate'er admiring pity can beftow.
Small were thy claims, but ev'n these claims deny'd,
Thy mind indignant fpurn'd its lot, and dy'd;
Refolv'd at once the worst of fate to brave,
And feek from want a refuge in the grave.
What though, unhappy boy! thy fad remains
No rites attend, no hallow'd ground contains,
Yet pity fhall bewaii thy hapless doom,
And genius confecrate thy early tomb;
They, whofe neglect destroy'd thee, now too late,
Shall praise thy merit, and lament thy fate.
Spoken at Richmond Houfe, by the Hon. Mrs. HOBART,
Written by the Right Hon. General CONWAY.
SINCE I was doom'd to tread the awful stage,
Thank Heaven, that plac'd me in this polifh'd age!
There was a time, we're told, when in a cart
I might have play'd our lovely Widow's part;
Or travell'd, like a pedlar with a pack,
And my whole homely wardrobe at my back;
But, troth, I feel no fancy for fuch mumming;
And fure one's dress should be at least becoming!
No rainbow filk then flaunted in the wind;
No gauzes fwell'd before, nor cork behind;
No diamonds then, with all their sparkling train,
Nor rouge, nor powder, e'en a fingle grain.
But these were fimple times, the learn'd agree-
Simple, indeed!-too fimple much for me!
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