Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more,She had not died to-day. ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, Struck blind by Lightning. IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH. SURE 'twas by Providence design'd, THE GIFT. ΤΟ IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN. SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake, Dear mercenary beauty, What annual offering shall I make Expressive of my duty? My heart, a victim to thine eyes, I'll give-but not the fullblown rose, I'll give thee something yet unpaid, STANZAS ON WOMAN. To hide her shame from every eye, LINES, INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE OF APRIL 3, 1800. E'EN have you seen, bathed in the morning dew, The budding rose its infant bloom display; When first its virgin tints unfold to view, It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day. So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came, [cheek; Youth's damask glow just dawning on her I gazed, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame, Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion weak. SONG, INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF 'SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.' AH me! when shall I marry me? But I will rally and combat the ruiner: SONG. WEEPING, murmuring, complaining, Fears the' approaching bridal night. SONG, FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY, THE wretch condemn'd with life to part Still, still on hope relies; And every pang that rends the heart Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, And still, as darker grows the night, SONG. O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver, Thou, like the world, the' oppress'd oppressing, STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasures start. Oh, Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe, Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. THIS tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way! Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid; And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. Needless to him the tribute we bestow, The transitory breath of fame below: More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, While converts thank their poet in the skies. EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON. HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller's hack; He led such a damnable life in this world- PROLOGUE, WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, WHOM CESAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE. PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS. WHAT! no way left to shun the' inglorious stage, |