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TO MY DAUGHTER,
On her Marriuge.
Dear to my heart as life's warm stream,
Which animates this mortal clay, For thee I court the waking dream,
And deck with smiles the future day; And thus beguile the present pain, With hopes that we shall meet again.
Yet will it be as when the past
Twin'd ev'ry joy, and care, and thought, And o'er our minds one mantle cast
Of kind affection finely wrought? Ah no! the groundless hope were vain, For so we ne'er can meet again.
May he who claims thy tender heart
Deserve its love, as I have done, For kind and gentle as thou art,
If so belov'd, thou’rt fairly won ; Bright may the sacred torch remain, And cheer thee till we meet again.
Mrs. Hunter. LOVE.
Though no specious skill I show
On a lie my bliss to raise, Though I cannot truth forego,
Nor ideal beauties praise ;
I disdain thy soul to move,
Yet, my fair one, yet I love.
Should I, (tell me) should I swear
Lightning center'd in that eye, That thy skin, supremely fair,
With heaven's purest fleece might vie ? Should I urge the false pretence,
Would'st thou not with scorn reprove! Yes—thy more exalted sense,
Severs flattery from love.
Must the false one gain the heart,
Vainly sought without disguise ?
E’en though Anna is the prize:
Oft, too oft successful prove;
I, alas! have only love.
Tew, I own, to truth attend,
Yet I dare expose my heart;
Though I dread it, I can part.
If thou deign but to approve,
The Monthly Mirror.
BY A GENTLEMAN Omitting to subscribe his name to a Letter to a Lady.
'Tis true I did forget my name,
In circumstance like mine,
But every name--but thine.
Howe'er the means are in your pow'r
(Dear charmer, then abet it)
And never more forget it.
Addressed to Mrs. Crew, by the. Hon. Charles Fox.
When the loveliest expression to features is join'd,
Then tell me, mysterious enchantress! O tell!
For alike in this only, enjoyment and pain
strain. That I've felt each reverse which from fortune can
flow, That I've tasted each bliss which the happiest know, Has still been the whimsical fate of my life, Where anguish and joy have been ever at strife. But tho' vers’d in ih' extreme both of pleasure and
pain, . I'm still but too ready to feel them again ; If then, for this once in my life, I am free, And escap'd from a snare, might catch wiser than me, 'Tis that beauty alone but imperfectly charms, For tho' brightness may dazzle, 'tis kindness that warms, As on suns in the winter with pleasure we gaze, But feel not their force, tho'their splendour we praise, So beauty our just admiration may claim, But 'uis love, and love only, our hearts can inflame.
Here is my much lov'd Celia laid,
At rest from all her earthly labours !
And to the ears of all her neighbours !