He left it but he fhould have ta'en

That beak, whence iffued many a ftrain
Of fuch mellifluous tone,

Might have repaid him well, I wote,
For filencing fo fweet a throat,
Faft fet within his own.

Maria weeps the Mufes mourn―
So, when by Bacchanalians torn,
On Thracian Hebrus' fide

The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell;
His head alone remain'd to tell
The cruel death he died.

THE ROSE.

The rofe had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, Which Mary to Anna convey'd,

The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower, And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it feem'd to a fanciful view,

Το

weep for the buds it had left with regret,

On the flourishing buth where it grew.

I haftily feiz'd it, unfit as it was,
For a nofegay, fo dripping and drown'd,
And fwinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I fnapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

And fuch, I exclaim'd, is the pitilefs part Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to forrow refign'd.

This elegant rofe, had I fhaken it lefs,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile,

And the tear that is wip'd with a little address,

May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.

MARIA! I have ev'ry good

For thee with'd many a time, Both fad, and in a cheerful mood, But never yet in rhyme.

To with thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more fprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unfightly.

What favour, then, not yet poffefs'd,
Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already bleft,

To thy whole heart's defire?

None here is happy but in part;
Full blifs is blifs divine;

There dwells fome with in ev'ry heart,
And, doubtless, one in thine.

That wish, on fome fair future day,
Which fate fhall brightly gild,.
('Tis blameless, be it what it may)
I wish it all fulfill'd.

1

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

PATRON of all thofe lucklefs brains,
That, to the wrong fide leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning.

Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, ftreams,
That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In conftant exhalations,

Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink,

Apollo, haft thou ftol'n away

A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapour now,

Impell'd through regions denfe and rare, By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies,
Combin'd with millions more,

To form an iris in the fkies,

Though black and foul before.

Illuftrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever pass'd my pen,
So foon to be forgot!

Phoebus, if fuch be thy defign,
To place it in thy bow,

Give wit, that what is left

With equal grace below.

may

fhine