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.

TO ANNA.

Though no specious skill I show

On a lie my bliss to raise, Though I cannot truth forego,

Nor ideal beauties praise ;
Though by flatt’ry's honied tongue

I disdain thy soul to move,
Though I chide when thou art wrong,

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 ?
Shall I spurn the false one's part,

E’en though Anna is the prize:
The hackney'd oath, the soft’ning sigh,

Oft, too oft successful prove;
Arts, for my weak grasp too high-

I, alas! have only love.

Tew, I own, to truth attend,

Yet I dare expose my heart;
If my words, too free, offend,

Though I dread it, I can part.
But, which gracious heav'n decree!

If thou deign but to approve,
From falsehood, as from flatt'ry, free,
Take my everlasting love.

The Monthly Mirror.

BY A GENTLEMAN Omitting to subscribe his name to a Letter to a Lady.

'Tis true I did forget my name,
But many a man has done the same,

In circumstance like mine,
Alas! my crazy head's too prone
Not only to forget my own,

But every name--but thine.

Howe'er the means are in your pow'r
To make me bless it ev'ry hour,

(Dear charmer, then abet it)
Do but unite your name with mine,
I then shall think it half divine,

And never more forget it.

MS.

LINES

Addressed to Mrs. Crew, by the. Hon. Charles Fox.

When the loveliest expression to features is join'd,
By nature's most delicate pencil design’d,
When blushes unbidden, and smiles without art,
Speak the sweetness and feeling that dwells in the

heart;
When in manners enehanting no blemish we trace,
But the soul keeps the promise we had from the face;.
Sure philosophy, reason, and coldness must prove
Defences unequal, to shield me from love.

Then tell me, mysterious enchantress! O tell!
By what wonderful art, by what magic spell,
My heart is so fenced, that for once I am wise,
And gaze without madness on Amoret's eyes?
That my wishes, which never were bounded before,
Are here bounded by friendship, and ask for no more:
Is't reason? no, that my whole life will belie, ;
For who's so at variance as reason and I?
Is'ı ambition that fills up each chink of my heart,
Nor allows for one softer sensation a part ?
Ah! no, for in this all the world must agree,
That one folly was never sufficient for me.
Is my mind on distress so intensely employ'd,
Or by pleasure relax’d, or variety cloy'd :

For alike in this only, enjoyment and pain
Both slacken the springs of the nerves which they

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.

MS.

EPITAPH

Here is my much lov'd Celia laid,

At rest from all her earthly labours !
Glory to God ! peace to the dead !

And to the ears of all her neighbours !