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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.
A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH,
Struck blind by Lightning.
IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.
SURE 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity than in hate,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.
IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
Expressive of my duty ?
Should I at once deliver,
The gift who slights the giver?
My rivals give-and let them,
I'll give them when I get them.
I'll give—but not the fullblown rose,
Or rosebud more in fashion ;
A transitory passion.
Not less sincere than civil :
I'll give thee to the devil.
STANZAS ON WOMAN. When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray, What charm can sooth her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom-is, to die.
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
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF
*SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.' Ah me! when shall I
me? Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me. He, fond youth, that could carry me, Offers to love, but means to deceive me. But I will rally and combat the ruiner: Not a look, not a smile shall my passion discover; She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover,
Lost to every gay delight;
Fears the’approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection!
Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? Had Myra follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.
THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY,
Still, still on hope relies;
Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;
Emits a brighter ray.
O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain, To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain; Thou, like the world, the' oppress’d oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe! And he who wants each other blessing
In thee must ever find a foe.
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;
I don't think he'll wish to come back,
WRITTEN AND SPOKEN
BY THE POET LABERIUS,
A Roman Knight,
WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.
PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.
What! no way left to shun the' inglorious stage,