The weak, desponding, soul to cheer,
To wipe from misery's cheek the tear,
And gently whisper peace!

These blessings, heav'n-descended maid,
On me, thy humble suppliant, shed;
My fervent pray'rs receive!
Beneath thy influence I'll despise
The torpid, cold, unripen'd joys,
Which apathy can give.

THE REPLY COURTEOUS,

ADDRESSED TO A LADY, WHO JOCULARLY OFFERED HER SERVICE AS PHYSICIAN TO THE AUTHOR, DURING A SLIGHT INDISPOSITION.

For your friendly proposal, Lucinda, receive
All the tribute a heart, truly grateful, can give:
Nor esteem me capricious, uncivil, or queer,
If professing your beauty and worth to revere,
For the reasons my muse shall hereafter assign,
The kind offer you make I would humbly decline!

Soon the trifling disorder whose influence I prove Some slight sanative med'cine I trust will remove;

But were you my Physician, such exquisite grace, Such loveliness beams in your person and face; With so bright an assemblage of virtues combin’d— So attractive your converse, well-cultur'd your mind,

That if rightly your power and my weakness I read, A disease more unyielding would quickly succeed. On my face, from whence sickness the rose has effac'd,

As your looks, in research of its symptoms, were plac'd,

To my slow wasting fever, your soul-searching eye Would a copious accession of fuel supply;

And recall'd by each glance, o'er my cheeks once

again

With the rose would the lily alternately reign! Your soft touch to my pulse quicker motion impart, And with strange palpitations disorder my heart : While my breathing laborious, and sighs half sup

prest,

The emotions too plainly disclose in my breast:
And, too dear to relinquish, too strong for controul,
Such a magical langour pervade my whole soul,
That to sickness so sweet all aversion would cease,
And the lovely Physician become my disease!
Till your fetters condemn'd, without hope, to endure,
Throughout life I must languish, nor wish for a cure!

Since a soul like Lucinda's no bliss can receive
From imparting a passion she could not relieve,
I adjure you, fair maid, by the Graces and Smiles,
Spare a heart too susceptive of love's tender wiles!
Nor while numbers around you, more suitable, sigh,
To the friend of your virtues forgiveness deny,
If his safety by flight he attempt to obtain;
Since all hopes of resistance or conquest are vain!

LINES,

WRITTEN ON A VISIT TO THE SEA AT HORNSEA, AFTER A CONSIDERABLE ABSENCE.

YE mould'ring cliffs, along whose utmost verge,
In meditation rapt, I've often stray'd,
While foaming at your feet the billowy surge,

Mocking restraint, in waves successive play'd.

I come to contemplate your scenes once more! But ah! how chang'd!-The place where erst I've stood,

List'ning, half breathless, Ocean's sullen roar,

Now lies ingulph'd amidst the circling flood!

And many a plant endu'd with sovereign pow'r, That o'er your borders shed a verdant grace, And many a wild but richly tinctur'd flow'r

That flourish'd there, I vainly strive to trace !

Reflection solemn !-Here my wounded mind
In pleasing sadness would awhile
repose;
And from the altered scenery seek to find
A fancied semblance of her real woes!

Wrought into tempest, as the raging main

Saps the foundation of these cliffs sublime, So fall those pleasures which to life pertain, Before the billows of devouring Time!

Yon rocky point alone unmov'd remains,
Amidst th' assault of congregated waves;
Boldly the oft-repeated shock sustains,

And all the fury of the tempest braves!

Thrice happy he who thus his hope and care Hath on the "Rock of Ages" firmly cast; Though Time this earth may from its basis tear, Yet his dependence shall for ever last!

THE THORN WITHOUT THE ROSE!

"No more my

bosom's peace to wound,

"The oft-told tale relate,

"Of troubles you, my friend, have found
"To vex the marriage state!
"The querulous, capricious mind
"Deserves contempt and scorn,
"That hopes in life's parterre to find
"A Rose without a Thorn!"

Thus Jack to Tom, his comrade dear,
With peevish accents spoke;
For Tom had groan'd full many a year,
Beneath the nuptial yoke;
A termagant his consort prov'd,
Devoid of female grace;

From Hecate scarce in form remov'd,
In temper, or in face.

My friendly monitor, I must

"(Nor let it raise your pride) "Confess your observation just;" Thus quickly Tom replied; "But think how hard his fate must be, "How piteous sure his woes, "Who's destin❜d to possess, like me,

"The Thorn without the Rose !"