TO A FRIEND.

No

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.

N2

STELLA IN MOURNING.

WHEN lately Stella's form display'd
The beauties of the

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.”

TO STELLA.

Not the soft sighs of vernal gales,
The fragrance of the flowery vales,
The murmurs of the crystal rill,
The vocal

Not all the power, nor all the fame,
That heroes, kings, or poets, claim;
Nor knowledge, which the learn'd approve;
To form one wish my soul can move.
Yet nature's charms allure my eyes,
And knowledge, wealth, and fame, I prize;
Fame, wealth, and knowledge, I obtain,
Nor seek I nature's charms in vain;
In lovely Stella all combine;
And, lovely Stella! thou art mine.

VERSES.

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A GENTLEMAN TO WHOM A LADY HAD GIVEN A

SPRIG OF MYRTLE *.

WHAT hopes, what terrors, does this gift

create
Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate.
The myrtle (ensign of supreme command,
Consign'd to Venus by Melissa's hand)
Not less capricious than a reigning fair,
Oft favours, oft rejects, a lover's pray'r.
In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain,
In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain,

- 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,
Th' unhappy lovers graves the myrtle spreads.
Oh! then, the meaning of thy gift impart,
And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart.
Soon must this sprig, as you shall fix its doom,
Adorn Philander's head, or grace his tomb.

To LADY FIREBRACE*,

AT BURY ASSIZES.

At length must Suffolk beauties shine in vain,
So long renown'd in B- -n's deathless strain;
Thy charms at least, fair Firebrace, might inspire
Some zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre ;
For, such thy beauteous mind and lovely face,
Thou seem'st at once, bright nymph, a Muse and

Grace.

To LYCE, AN ELDERLY LADY.
YE nymphs whom starry rays invest,

By flatı’ring poets given,
Who shine, by lavish lovers drest,
In all the

Engross not all the beams on high,

Which gild a lover's lays,
But, as your sister of the sky,

Let Lyce share the praise.
Her silver locks display the moon,

Her brows a cloudy show,
Strip'd rainbows round her eyes are seen,

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.
But some Zelinda, while I sing,

Denies my Lyce shines;
And all the pens of Cupid's wing

Attack my gentle lines.
Yet, spite of fair Zelinda's eye,

And all her bards express,
My Lyce makes as good a sky,

And I but flatter less.

ON THE DEATH OF
MR ROBERT LEVET,

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.