Why should faith, obsequious duty,

Sooth an eastern tyrant's scorn?

Who but rifles joyless beauty

Steals the honey, leaves the thorn.
Sadness sits by Ganges' fountains;
How can echo cheer the vale?
What repeat from fragrant mountains!
What but grief and horrour's tale?
What but shrieks of wild despair?

What but shouts that murder sleep?
There the struggling, fainting fair;

There-but see my Sappho weep! Change the strain!-this mournful measure Melts, oppresses virtuous heartsSappho, wake thy lyre of pleasure! Sing of Europe's happier arts! Sing of all the mingled blessing Reason, tempering passion, knows; All the transport of possessing Unpluck'd beauty's willing rose! Sing of that refin'd sensation

Mutual melting bosoms prove, Souls exchang'd, sweet emanation, Separate being lost in love! Rapture's tears, voluptuous stream! Languor stealing sorrow's sighs! Sing of love-thyself the theme! Sing of love thyself the prize!

SONG.

HANG my lyre upon the willow,

Sign to winds thy notes forlorn; Or, along the foamy billow

Float the wrecking tempest's scorn. Sprightly sounds no more it raises,

Such as Laura's smiles approve; Laura scorns her poet's praises,

Calls his artless friendship love: Calls it love, that spurning duty, Spurning Nature's chastest ties, Mocks thy tears, dejected beauty, Sports with fallen virtue's sighs. Call it love, no more profaning

Truth with dark suspicion's wound; Or, my fair, the term retaining,

Change the sense, preserve the sound. Yes, 'tis love-that name is given, Angels, to your purest flames: Such a love as merits Heaven, Heaven's divinest image claims.

LAURA'S ANSWER.

BY MISS C

SOON be thy lyre to winds consign'd,
Or hurl'd beneath the raging deep,
For while such strains seduce my mind,
How shall my heart its purpose keep?
Thy artful lays, which artless seem,

With too much fondness I approve; Ah! write no more on such a theme,

Or Laura's friendship-ends in love.

TO MISS G

AH leave, you cry, the harp unstrung,
For fortune shifts her fickle wind: ̧
Resume thy lyre, on willows hung,
To sing the fair, no longer kind.
No-nearer view my alter'd state,
For fear too high, for hope too low;
Beneath the victor's joyful fate,

Yet far above the captive's woe.
The charms of sense no more beguile;
On reason's lap I lay me down :
If claiming now no beauties' smile,
Appears it just to meet their frown?
Light insects they, of gaudy hues,

Admire the glare of youthful day,
Still bathe in morn's, not evening's dews,
From shades of autumn fleet away.
Behold their train of captains, beaux!
Disdain my breast, disdain to sigh!
To these the fair, the rivals those,
The son of Jove's be my reply:
"Ah why desert th' Olympic games?
Aspire to victory!" Philip cries:
"I come," young Ammon fierce exclaims,
"If kings my rivals, thrones the prize."
Yes, letter'd maid! my soul approve,

The seat no more of vain desires : Extinguish'd there the flame of love, Extinguish'd there ambition's fires! To save from vice, from folly save, What aid can beauty, power afford? Unworthy love to call thee slave,

Unworthy crowds to call thee lord!
Pure reason, yes; pure truth-but why,
Ah why! rebellious heart declare,
With flattering pulse and stifled sigh,
That other tenants harbour there?
Go-tranquil Hope, by turns to dwell,
Expelling reason pleasure's court,
Expelling passion wisdom's cell:
Go-reason's, passion's mutual sport.
Vain dreamer!-rather both revere,
But neither's sole dominion own:
When Heaven assign'd to each their sphere,
It never meant excluding one:
Excluding which?-objections wait

On vain pretensions either forms;
Alike to life's salubrious state

Ye both are fatal-calms and storms.

TO LAURA,

303

ON HER RECEIVING A MYSTERIOUS LETTER FROM A
METHODIST DIVINE

THE doctor wakes early-half drest in his cassoc,
He steals from his consort to write;
She sleeps and sweet Heaven is invok'd from
his hassoc,

To lengthen the trance of her night.

ON MEN BEING DEPRIVED, FROM CUSTOM AND

Lost every function, vanish'd every sense : Is this thy lot, divine benevolence?

SHIP WITH THE FAIR SEX.

HAD Soft Aspasia's sex been man,

What friendship's holy chains
Had link'd our beings, fortune's plan,
Our pleasures and our pains?
Alike our ruder, milder sports,

Our studies too the same,
Companions both in shades and courts,
In paths of love or fame.

By bright collision, patriot beams
Had flush'd from soul to soul,

And war had seen, in union's streams,

Our tide of glory roll.

There fate, that strikes the noblest breast,
Had surely reverenc'd thine;

The thirsty lance I then had blest
For only wounding mine.

But ah! my sweeter downy hours,
Had I been chang'd, not you;
What tranquil joys, if kinder powers
Had made me woman too!

Made each the other's softer care,
One table then had fed,

One chamber lodg'd the faithful pair,
Ah do not blush!-one bed.

Both sitting at one busy loom

In nature's vernal bow'r,

Had rivall'd nature's vernal bloom,
Creating both one flow'r.

Both screen'd from summer's sultry view,
In shades by haunted stream,
Had own'd the moral vision true
That youthful poets dream.

Sweet wisdom, couch'd in mystic rhyme,
Yet bending o'er the brook,
Had gathered morals more sublime
From great creation's book;

And felt our mixing souls refine

In purer wisdom's ray,

The being virtue's friend and thine

Had clear'd our mists away.
My morning incense, ev'ning pray'r,
With thine, had soar'd above,
With thine ascending sweeter there
On wings of song and love.

Vain dreams! for custom's laws, combin'd

With virtue's stern decree,

Divide the beings nature join'd,

Divide my fair from me.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

PAINTING AT THE NEWS OF HER FRIEND'S MIS-
FORTUNES.

Au! maid too gentle, while thy tears deplore
The virtuous exile on a foreign shore,
Thy pulse forgets to beat, thy cheek to glow,
Dim the bright eye, fix'd monument of woe,

VOL. XVI.

305

So soft a bosom; flow alone the tear,
That dew of Heaven, O maid! to Heaven allied,
Thy great Redeemer shed for man and died.
Good angels mourn creation's glories lost,
And mourning please, resemble him the most;
Flow then thy tear, ordain'd by Heaven's decree,
For bliss to others, sweeter bliss to thee!
With pity's pangs her dear sensations feel;
The shaft that wounds thee, drops a balm to heal.
Thy soul expanding, like a vernal flower,
Shall glow the brighter in affliction's shower
For every tear to suff'ring virtue given,
Itself approving, and approv'd by Heaven.
Weep then, but weep another's fate alone;
Let smiles be still attendant on thy own.

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. How blest is he whom nature's gentle hand Has snatch'd from human life and human woes, Ev'n in his childish days, ere yet he knew Or sin, or pain, or youthful passion's force ! In earth's soft lap, beneath the flowery turf, His peaceful ashes sleep; to Heaven ascends Th' unspotted soul, declar'd by voice divine A guest well pleasing-Then no longer mourn, Thou drooping parent, nor bewail him lostIn life's first bloom, when infant reason dawn'd, And the young mind, unfolding every power, Gave promise fair of manhood, transport fill'd The mother's bosom, pondering every word And action there. She now lamenting loud Deplores him, from her vain embraces torn By unrelenting fate, and fierce disease; Like eastern storms that blast the opening year.

TO MISS NM,

WRITTEN AT BRIGHTHELMSTON.

LOVELY N-m! rise, and see
Modest morn resemble thee !
Ocean smiles with your repose,
Come to seas, where Venus rose !
Bathing, Dr. Pool observes,
Braces all the optic nerves.

"Heavens," she cries," what idle whim!
Youthful eyes are seldom dim;
Mine can mark the distant sail,
Or lowing herds in Sussex' vale;
Scarce a spire or cottage smoke,
Or cloud embracing mountain oak;
An object scarce of land or sea
Rises unperceiv'd by me.'
True-but eyes that distant roam,
Frequent fail for scenes at home.
Let example make ine clearer,
Place yourself at Shergold's mirror !
Every mild reflected grace,
That angel form, that angel face,
A world of wonders all can view,
Envy only blind and-you.

TO THE MRS.'S RS,

WRITTEN AT BRIGHTHELMSTONE.

No, gentle ladies!-he on Brighton's flood,
Who deck'd with N's name a feeble page;
For you, the guardians of the fair and good,
Has arm'd no bitter stings of Satan's rage.
On impious necks the Muse of vengeance treads,
For shameless folly dips her shafts in gall;
While, droping odours on your virtuous heads,
The dews of praise, a precious ointment, fall.
Your N-m's mind in every virtue grew,

In every grace, beneath your sweet control; In genuine lustre were preserved by you

Her polish'd form, reflecting all the soul. Her candid smiles, unconscious of their worth, Her blush of nature without other dye! You taught her modest eyes to love the Earth, Or soar in flaming rapture to the sky. Her, the best gift of Heaven, its gracious love Permitted to your guidance-come and share The joy of virtuous souls, whose toils improve The talents trusted to their fruitful care'. Come, faithful servants-hear a voice proclaim Your hymn of triumph-'tis no sorg of mine; 'Tis Heaven that calls you to partake your fame With God the giver, and this gift divine.

VERSES

WRITTEN AT BRIGHTHELMSTONE.

HERE Charles lay shelter'd, from this desert

shore

[roar;
He lanch'd the bark, and brav'd the tempest's
He trusted here the faith of simple swains,
And ocean, friendlier than the Worcester plains 2.
No beauteous forms, as now adorn'd it then,
The downs were pathless, without haunt of men.
One shepherd wander'd on the lonely hill,
One village-maid explor'd the distant rill.
But mark the glittering scenes succeeding these;
See peopled all the shores, and healing seas;
Yet, friend to Britain, flows alike the wave
With India's treasures, and defrauds the grave.
Had fate now plac'd him on this fairy land,
The thoughtless Charles had linger'd on the
strand,

Nor danger chill'd, nor high ambition fir'd
That wanton bosom, by the loves inspir'd:
His languid sails the monarch here had furl'd,
Had gain'd a N-n's smile, and lost the world,

And turn no more the giddy rounds
Of pleasure's wanton chace,
But range beyond material bounds,
Eternity, and space!—
Come, read in ocean's ample page,
Explain the cause that guides,
That bridles now, and now to rage
Precipitates the tides.

In glory see the planets roll,

Their laws, their measure, scan,
Nor there confin'd, explore the soul,
And liberty, and man!

On soaring pinions let us shoot,
Like him, the bird of Jove!

-"What waste," she cries, "in such pursuit, An age of life and love!

"With eagle flight and eagle view

Let Newton sail the sky!

But what am I? or what are you,
Philosopher?-a fly:

"Vain insect! now aloft he springs
To drink the liquid light,
And quenches now his flagging wings
In angry seas and night.

"Ah fool! to quit his reptile state
Amid fresh dews and flowers!
Be his the justly purchas'd fate,
The sober lesson ours.
"From clouds descending, let us try
What humbler regions give!
Let others soar to fall and diel
'Tis ours to creep, and live."

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING VERSES.

BY MISS G

No more let science tempt thy searching eyes Beyond the bounds prescrib'd to mortal sight, No more advent'rous mount the lofty skies,

And daring, penetrate the realms of light. With humble mind go trace thy Maker's hand In every smiling valley, fertile plain; Adore his bounty in the cultur'd land,

Revere his wisdom in the stormy main! Nor thoughtless view the vast tremendous sea, Whose course impetuous power divine restrains; [cree, Whose rushing tide, control'd by Heaven's deForbears to violate the flow'ry plains.

Nor yet confine to these thy wand'ring sight,

While splendid gems the face of Heav'n adorn; Nor heedless view the radiant lamps of night, Nor heedless view the Sun that gilds the morn: But turn with praise to Him who reigns above, Supreme o'er works that speak almighty