And prove whose patience longest can endure;
We'll strive whose fancy shall be lost
In dreams of fondest passion most;

For if thou thus hast loved, oh, never hope a cure!

MRS. BARBAULD.

TO FANCY.

OH Thou! whose empire unconfined
Rules all the busy realms of Mind!
The slow-eyed Cares thy mild dominion
Confess; if thou thy rod extend,

No more the sharp-fang'd Sorrows rend,
But, hovering round on frolic pinion,
The laughing train of Joys descend.

To soothe the woes of absent love,
Come, Fancy! now, what time above

The full orb'd moon, that rose all glowing,
Begins her lifted lamp to pale;

What time to charm the listening vale,
In liquid warbles fondly flowing,
Laments the' enamour'd nightingale.

In softly pleasing light the queen
Of heaven arrays the blue serene,
Yet lovelier beams the gentle glory
In Anna's azure eyes display'd:
Sweet is the poet of the shade;

Yet sweeter than his warbled story
Each sound from Anna's lips convey'd.

Nor haply shall I ever find

That tongue to me alone unkind,

On every grief but mine so ready
To bid the balm of comfort flow;
Nor shall that eye, which every woe
But mine can melt, thus ever steady
To me alone no pity show.

Like mine her bosom now may feel
The tender melancholy steal,

Though maiden modesty dissemble;
And now while Memory brings again
The Muse which first reveal'd my pain,
The' involuntary tear may tremble,
And own the triumph of the strain:

So whispers Hope: by Fancy led
She comes; with rosy wreaths her head,
With rosy wreaths her sacred anchor
Love intertwines-in vain employ !
For lo! behind the' exulting boy,

With stifled smiles of patient rancour,
Creeps Mockery, watchful to destroy.

Ah! still, though whisper'd to deceive,
Let me thy flatteries, Hope, believe,

Content from grief one hour to borrow!
Ah, still, if o'er my distant way,
As through the path of life I stray,
Hang gathering clouds of future sorrow,
O Fancy! gild them with thy ray!

F. LAURENCE.

VOL. III.

U

TO A YOUNG LADY.

WHY thus decline my troubled eyes,
If hither their mild lustre bending
Those azure orbs to meet me rise?
Why thus, with thee conversing, dies

My voice, in broken murmurs ending?

Yet, dawning from my looks distress'd,
Yet wooing in the coy expression
Of faltering sounds, that half suppress'd
In sighs ill stifled breathe the rest,

Read-ah too dear! the fond confession.

In vain! what these soft tumults show,
From thee, yet new to love, is hidden;
Untaught thy wishes yet to know,
If sighs ascend, if blushes glow,

What means the sigh, the blush unbidden.

But hope not ever thus secure

To dart thy wildly wandering glances:
What others now for thee endure
Thou soon shalt feel in bloom mature;
On hasty wing thy youth advances.

O skill'd in every graceful art

That adds a polish'd charm to beauty; Be mine those pleasing cares to' impart Which best refine the gentle heart,

Be mine to teach the tender duty.

F. LAURENCE.

TO THE ZEPHYRS.

YE! before whose genial breath
Hovering Death,

Girt with troops of wan diseases,
Quits the' usurped domain of air;
Where, oh! where

Linger ye, propitious breezes?

Hither, where my languid maid
Woos your aid,

Come with balmy spirit blowing;
Gentle harbingers of Spring,
Hither bring

Health in rosy beauty glowing,

Bright-eyed Joy to Youth allied
At her side;

While with giddy gesture after
Trip gay Sports of wilder glance,

Tiptoe Dance,

Dimpled Smiles, and sleek-brow'd Laughter.

Joy-born Mirth shall lead the train;

Soon again

Her each sprightlier Love shall follow,

All who from the front defy,

All who lie

In the dimple's treacherous hollow.

So your praise my song shall tell;
So my shell

Pour to you the liquid measures;
Soft as when your downy wings
Fan the strings,

Murmuring sweetly pensive pleasures.
Ah! no such reward ye seek;
O'er that cheek

Blushing if it meet my gazes,
O'er that bosom's living snow
Free to go,

Little you regard my praises.

Yet, if to my sober ear

Ever dear

Sound your voices sadly sighing,
Where from lonely shades my grief
Courts relief,

To your airy woe replying;

Mindful now, in amorous play
Boldly gay

As around her charms ye hover,
Oh! in whisper'd sighs reveal
What I feel,

What to you alone discover.

F. LAURENCE.

ODE.

O WAVING woods! O hills!

O springs, and warbling rills!

O far spread wilds, and sun-excluding bowers! Where, stung with anguish deep,

I wander'd oft to weep,

And waste unseen the slowly lapsing hours!