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If, while the mantling goblet flows,

I sing of Beauty's charms divine ;The breast that heaves, the cheek that glows,

And beaming eyes, like stars that shine;The draft on Memory's tablet true

That pictures each entrancing grace, Without a frown shall Stella view,

Or there some lov'd' memorial trace. And when with high-enraptur'd air

My lavish verse shall most comme She'll find her youthful image there,

Or in each portrait own a friend. Then reach me old Anacreon's lyre,

And temper me Anacreon's bowl; That youthful Joy's remember'd fire

May Age's numbing frost controul.



On a LADY's Fan of her own Painting.
Of danger careless, while the youth admires

The emblematic toy on which thy art,
In rich device, has shadow'd Hymen's fires,

Love's sacred altar, and the votive heart;
As from the author to the work he turns,

Th’insidious flame steals on him by degrees,
Till with the rapture all his bosom burns,
And his heart proves the sacrifice he sees.




OTHAMEs with chrystal face,
Whose waters visit as they stray,
The hamlets, where the shepherds play,

And seats that princes grace,
O Thames, still let me by thy stream,
Waste life away in pleasing dream.

Not where thy wave beside,
The city rears her turrets proud,
And the mad tumult of the croud

Resounds along thy tide,
O! let not there my youth pursue
False joys that sober age will rue.

Nor where thy bank along,
Some princely villa crowns the plain,
Whose gilded halls the glittering train

Of courtly flatterers throng,
O see me not there by thy wave,
Of show and idle state the slave.

But where thy silver springs
Thro' nameless vales their smooth way take,
Ere yet the shepherd they forsake,

To seek the seats of kings;
O! Thames, there let me rear my bower,
And deck it round with many a flower.

There like thy noiseless tide,
Which steals so softly thro' the vale,
That on the bank the poplar pale

Hears not the current glide,
So noiseless let my secret day,
Among the green woods slide away.

And as thy waters flow,
Not to annoy the simple swain,
His cot, his fold, or ripening grain,

But blessings to bestow,
may I mark my


way, By scattering blessings where I stray.

Smoothly the years shall pass, Nor shall I know that envious Time Has stole away my youthful prime,

Till taught by thy clear glass; Till in thy chrystal wave I trace The roses withering on my face,

Along thy margent green, The gentle Muses oft at morn, In garb by rural virgin worn,

Shall round my bower be seen ; Then shall they place me in their ranks, And lead me to their favourite banks.

Let not the Muses crown
With laurel wreath my tender head,
Nor round my humble temples spread

The palm that yields renown;
But round my brows a garland twine
Of roses by thy stream that shine.

Nor let the Muses bring
To grace my hand the sounding shell,
Nor bid me with loud measures swell

The trumpet by thy spring;
But let them bear to me at morn,
The reed that on thy bank is born.

Softly the reed shall blow,
And thy clear springs shall love the strain,
And waft it to the simple swain,

Who haunts the vales below;
But O! beyond the shepherd's bounds,
O! waft not, Thames, its artless sounds.

Oft by thy watery glass,
With sober look and pensive eye,
Beneath the poplars will I lie,

Along the smooth green grass,
Wrapt in soft thought and musing deep,
While on thy wave my eye I keep.

There if I chance to mark
The downward sky in thy clear stream,
Now bright with many a golden gleam,

With sudden shades now dark,
O! life, then will I say, and sigh,
Thy face is likest to that sky.

If bending o'er the brink,
Within thy wave fair flowers I spy,
Reflecting the gay bank, which fly

Our grasp, then will I think,
O! hope, thy glass still cheats our sight,
With flowers so faithless and so bright.

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Or if some alder tall,
I mark that shades thee on the steep,
Beneath whose root thy waters creep,

And silent urge its fall;
O! greatness, I will weep for thee,
For thou must fall like that fair tree,

Thus will I musing lie,
Till the bright sun withdraws his beam,
Till in thy wave the moonlight gleam,

And glittering stars 1 spy,
Then rise and woo the birds, that steep
Their song in tears, to soothe my sleep,

Long in the secret grove,
Where thus the breath of morn I taste,
Where thus the evening hour I waste,

O! Thames, long winding rove,
To mark the soft and smooth delights,
Of rural days and rural nights.

Then gently take thy way,
And as thy silver waters glide
Where stately cities crown thy side,

Or courts their pride display,
Mark if a man more blest than me

Thy banks amid these bright scenes see. 1776.

I LAUGH at Poll's perpetual pother

To make me her's for life.
She's old enough to be my mother-
But not to be my wife,


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