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TO A FRIEND.
more thus brooding o'er yon heap, With Avarice painful vigils keep; Still unenjoy'd the present store, Still endless sighs are breath'd for more. O! quit the shadow, catch the prize, Which not all India's treasure buys! To purchase Heaven has gold the power? Can gold remove the mortal hour ? In life can love be bought with gold? Are friendships pleasures to be sold ? No--all that's worth a wish-a thought, Fair virtue gives unbrib'd, unbought. Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind, Let nobler views engage thy mind. With science tread the wond'rous
way, Or learn the Muses' moral lay; In social hours indulge thy soul, Where mirth and temperance mix the bowl; To virtuous love resign thy breast, And be, by blessing beauty-blest.
Thus taste the feast by nature spread, Ere youth and all its joys are fled; Come taste with me the balm of life, Secure from
pomp, and wealth, and strife. I boast whate'er for man was meant, In health, and Stella, and content; And scorn! oh! let that scorn be thine! Mere things of clay that dig the mine.
STELLA IN MOURNING.
WHEN lately Stella's form display'd
gay brocade, The nymphs who found their power decline, Proclaim'd her not so fair as fine • Fate ! snatch away the bright disguise, " And let the goddess trust their eyes.” Thus blindly pray'd the Frerful Fair, And Fate malicious heard the pray’r; But, brighten'd by the sable dress, As virtue rises in distress, Since Stella still extends her reign, Ah! how shall envy sooth her pain?
Th' adoring Youth and envious Fair, Henceforth shall form one common prayer; And love and hate alike implore The skies--" That Stella mourn no more.”
Not the soft sighs of vernal gales,
the verdant hill; Not all their charms, though all unite, Can touch my bosom with delight. Not all the gems on India's shore, Not all Peru's unbounded store,
Not all the power, nor all the fame,
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A GENTLEMAN TO WHOM A LADY HAD GIVEN A
SPRIG OF MYRTLE *.
WHAT hopes, what terrors, does this gift
- These verses were first printed in a Magazine for 1968, but were written between forty and fifty years ago. Elegant as they are, they were composed in the short space five minutes.
The myrtle crowns the happy lovers heads,
To LADY FIREBRACE*,
AT BURY ASSIZES.
At length must Suffolk beauties shine in vain,
To LYCE, AN ELDERLY LADY.
By flatı’ring poets given,
of Heaven; * This lady was Bridget, third daughter of Philip Bacon, Esq. of Ipswich, and relict of Philip Evers, Esq. of that town. She became the second wife of Sir Cordell Firebrace, the last Baronet of that name (to whom she brought a fortune of 25,000l.), July 26, 1737. Being again left a widow in 1759, she was a third time married, April 7, 1762, to William Campbell, Esq. uncle to the present Duke of Arglye; and died July 3, 17827
Engross not all the beams on high,
Which gild a lover's lays,
Let Lyce share the praise.
Her brows a cloudy show,
And show'rs from either flow. Her teeth the night with darkness dyes,
She's starr'd with pimples o'er; Her tongue like nimble lightning plies,
And can with thunder roar.
Denies my Lyce shines;
Attack my gentle lines.
And all her bards express,
And I but flatter less.
ON THE DEATH OF
A Practiser in Physick. CONDEMN'D to hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.