But most a pious monarch's grateful tear
Proclaim thy fortunate rememb'rance dear,
Dear to himself and to his people too ;
For ev'ry pompous rite of rev'rence past,
That tribute to long faithful service due,
In other chiefs thy virtue shall renew,
And still in emulous succession last.

So the poetic branch, renown'd of old For glitt'ring leaves, and balls of blooming gold, Though torn, appear'd before the Trojan's eyes Still fresh with shining foliage to arise ;* Unchang'd the value of its precious frame, Its radiant hue unchang'd, another and the same.

* Uno avulso non deficit alter. VIRGIL.

THE BROWN BEAUTY.

WHILE flushing o'er thy olive check, Like the morning's dubious break, Virgin shame delights to spread

Her roses of a deeper red;

And those ruddy lips of thine
Emulate the bleeding vine;
Think'st thou Celia's languid white
Can allure my roving sight,
Or my bosom catch a glow
From that chilling form of snow?
In those orbs, O nymph divine!
Stars may well be said to shine,
Stars whose pointed rays are made
More brilliant by surrounding shade;
Shade thy raven-locks supply

To relieve my dazzled eye.

Trust me, thy transcendant face

Takes from its brown a mellower grace;

A ripe autumnal bloom benign, Whence all the Loves exulting shine;

As jet emits a glossy light,

From its polish'd surface bright.

EPIGRAMS.

THE PRETTY VIXEN.

WHEN foam'd the dashing waves, and winds were high,

From ocean surely, Venus-like, you sprung;

For I can bear the lightning of your eye,

But who can bear the thunder of your tongue?

ANOTHER, TO THE SAME.

WITH angel face, and faultless form,
How strange that you're not to my liking!
Yet, when you cuff your spouse, and storm,
I own your beauty vastly striking.

AN IMITATION OF MARTIAL.

My patron lives next street; but, for assistance, We might as well live fourscore miles at distance.

SONG.

SWEET is the woodbine's fragrant twine;
Sweet the ripe burthen of the vine;
The pea-bloom sweet, that scents the air;
The rose-bud sweet beyond compare ;
Sweet the perfume of yonder grove;
Sweeter the lip of her I love.

Soft the rich meadow's velvet green,
Where cowslip-tufts are early seen;
Soft the young cygnet's snowy breast,
Or down that lines the linnet's nest ;
Soft the smooth plumage of the dove ;
Softer the breast of her I love.

Bright is the star that opes the day;
Bright the mid-noon's refulgent ray;
Bright on yon hill the sunny beam;
Bright the blue mirror of the stream;
Bright the gay twinkling fires above;
Brighter the eye of her I love.

To match her grace, with idle pain
Through Nature's stores I search in vain ;
All that is bright, and soft, and sweet,

Does in her form concenter'd meet:

Then, muse, how weak thy pow'r must prove
To paint the charms of her I love!

ANOTHER.

WHEN I sat by my fair, and she tremblingly told
The soft wishes and doubts of her heart,

How quickly old Time then delightfully roll'd,
For Love lent the plume from his dart!

From the blush of her cheek how my bosom caught

flame,

And her eyes spoke a fondness her lips would not name!

But her cheek that once rival'd the summer's full rose,
Now as April's sad primrose is pale ;

In her eye now no bright sensibility glows,
Though I breathe forth truth's rapturous tale.
And thy moments, old Time, that on downy feet fled,
Ah me! are now fetter'd, and weighty with lead.