But woe betide the cruel hour, I love thee! Oh! Ellen, when the grave shall shrine I love thee! And finding then, that Fortune's beam Thou'lt wish the heart that's ceas'd to beat, I love thee! WHISTON BRISTOW. TO MISS S. IN IMITATION OF WALLER'S EPIGRAM,“ SUCH HELEN WAS." SUCH were the strains the tuneful Sappho sung! So sweet the notes of her enchanting tongue! But had like beauty bless'd the Lesbian's face, Had she, like thee, been crown'd with ev'ry grace, No scornful Phaon had her love deny'd, The nymph had triumph'd, and the boy had dy'd. DR. RUSSEL. LINES Written on finding, when at Dumfries, in 1811, that the Poet Burns was buried in the Churchyard without any Monument erected to his Memory. SWEET bard! than whom no minstrel's art So Thou bad'st all nature weep thy friend *; All through the midnight wails for thee! Thy land, before unnam'd, unprais'd. * See Burns's "Elegy on the Death of Matthew Henderson." The old name of a district in Ayrshire, where Burns was born. The Nine such base neglect upbraid, MADRIGAL. FROM THE FRENCH OF MONTREUIL. H. P. COME, prithee, get rid of those whimsies and fancies, You think in the youth, who would fain be your lover, That each look, and each word, and each deed, should discover, He deems you a being divine. 'Tis the wildest of visions! then cease to caress it; Nor to flattering praises give way. I'm no angel, nor hero, I frankly confess it; Do you the same candour display. No goddess are you, from the heavens transported, But as pretty a maiden as ever was courted, And Louisa, my dear, is your name. R. A. DAVENPORT. EPITAPH. ON A FAITHful old feMALE SERVANT, WHO DIED AT THE AGE OF 91. 1813. BY THE REV. R. POLWHELE. NURSE of my infant age! nay more! II. But 'twas a burden hard to bear, III. Yes! after such a lapse of years IV. To joy, from trouble, art thou gone! To peace, from earthly strife! And "Well" (thy Lord shall say)" well done! "Come! enter into life!" EPITAPH ON DR. GILBERT PASLEY AT MADRAS. 1791. BY EYLES IRWIN, ESQ. YE! whom the glare of power, the lure of gold, From wan disease 'twas his your frames to raise, To mend the heart, and minister to thought! But now, alas! is life's physician gone— That worth, which goodness stamp'd, are fleeting sounds! But yet, not fleeting-In the public eye And friendship's lyre reverberates the notes! |