Page images
PDF
EPUB

"Say, in Creation's ample bound,

Where can there such a form be found?
How fine that curve! How bright those rays!
Oh I could here for ever gaze!

Sce, fee, refplendent circles rife,

Each above each, of various dyes!
Mark that first ring of fanguine light!
Beam'd ever ruby half fo bright?
Or can the flaming topaz vie

With that next ftream of golden dye?
Where was that em'rald ever feen
Whofe rays could rival yonder green?
Or where's that faphire's azure hue,
Can emulate it's neighb'ring blue?
See! purple terminates my bow,
Boaft amethyfts fo bright a glow?"
Thus to each charm fhe gave its due,
Nay more but that is entre nous,
Exhauftlefs feem'd the copious theme,
For where's the end of felf esteem?
She finding ftill for praife pretence,
From vanity drew eloquence:
When in the midst of her career,
Behold her glories difappear.
See her late boasted tints decay
And vanish into air away,

Like fpectres at th' approach of day.

On things too tranfient hangs their fate,

For them to hope a lafting date,

The fallen rain has clear'd the skies,

And lo! the fhort-lived phantom dies.

My application's brief and plain,

Beauty's the Rainbow, Youth's the Rain.

EUGENIO.

EPIGRA M.

On the Seahorse, with the Astronomers on board, being attacked by a French frigate.

M

"ARS, inform'd that fome wights with inquifitive eye,
Defign'd into Venus's motions to pry,

Dispatch d a bold warrior from Lewis's fleet,
The caitiffs to feize, and their purpose defeat ;
But Neptune ftrait fent a Seahorse to their aid,
And fafe o'er the ocean his fav'rites convey'd.
VOL. IV.
S

Lincs

Lines from Mr. Gk to a Nobleman, who asked him if he did not intend being in Parliament.

[ocr errors]
[blocks in formation]

(Once a fiable pillar of the flate)
Admiral EDWARD BOSCAWEN,
Who died

January the 10th, 1761,
In the fiftieth year of his age;
Equally in the luftre of renown
As in the meridian of life.
His birth, tho' noble,

His titles, tho' illuftrious,

Were but incidental additions to his greatnets.
Be these therefore the leffer theme of heralds,
Whilft the annals of adverfe nations,

If they faithfully record

What our own history,
Proud to adorn her page,
Muft perpetuate;
Shall even to late pofterity convey,
With what ardent zeal,

With what fuccessful valour,

He ferved his country,
And taught her foes to dread
Her naval power.
Alfo

What an inflexible attachment to merit
Flourishing beneath his happy aufpices,
What an affemblage

Of

Of

Intrepidity, humanity and juftice
United

To form his character,
And render him

At once beloved and envied.
Yet know, infidious Gaul!
Eternal enemy of this our ifle!
Howe'er our grief

May feem to give the prefent exultation;
Yet, even after death,
BOSCAWEN'S triumphs

Shall to fucceeding ages ftand
A fair example,

And roufe the active fons of Britain,
Like him,

To dart the terror of their thunders
On Callic perfidy!

So fhall the conquefts which his deeds infpired,
Indelibly tranfmit his virtues,
(A blaze of martial glory)
Far beyond
The mural epitaph,
Or,

The local and perishable monuments
Of brafs or ftone.

EPITAPH on the late Mr. Richardson, Author of Pamela, Sir Charles Grandison, &c.

F ever warm benevolence was dear,

Ilfever wildom gain'd efteem fincere,

Or genuine fancy deep attention won,
Approach with awe the duft-of Richardson.

What tho' his Mufe, thro' diftant regions known,
Might fcorn the tribute of this humble ftone;
Yet pleafing to his gentle frade, muft prove
The meaneft pledge of friendship, and of love:
For oft will these, from venal throngs exil'd;
And oft will Innocence, of afpect mild,
And white-rob'd Chastity, with ftreaming eyes
Frequent the cloifter where their patron lies.

This, reader, learn; and learn from one, whofe woe
Bids her wild verfe in artlefs accents flow:
For, could the frame her numbers to commend

The husband, father, citizen and friend;
How would her Mufe difplay, in equal strain,
The critic's judgment, and the writer's vein ?-

S 2

Ah,

Ah, no! expect not from the chiffel'd stone
The praifes, graven on our hearts alone.
There fhall his fame a lafting fhrine acquire:
And ever fhall his moving page infpire

Pure truth, fixt honour, virtue's pleasing lore;
While tafte and science crown'd this favour'd fhore.

On the death of JOHN RICH, Esq.

Accept this latest tribute at my

hand.

SHAKESPEARE.

HE fcene is clos'd-Life's play is done-
And pleafantry expires with Lun;

THE

Who well perform'd, with various art,
The mimic, and the moral part.

His action juft, correct his plan,
Whether as Harlequin, or man.
Hear, criticks, hear! and fpare your jest,
Life's but a motley garb at beft;

He wore it long with grace and ease,

And every gefture taught to please ;

Where (fome few patch-work foibles feen
Scatter'd around-blue-yellow-green-)
His conftant virtue's radiant hue

O'er all fuperior fhone to view.

The lively vein of repartee,

As magick-fword, was fmart and free ;
Like that for harmless mirth defign'd, ̧
It ftruck, but left no pain behind.

The mafk of oddity, he wore,
Endear'd the hidden beauties more.
When thrown afide, the fhade was clear'd,
The real countenance appear'd.

When human kindness, candour fair,

And truth the native features were.

With moral eye his labours fean,

And in the actor read the man.

How few, like him, could change with cafe,
From fhape to fhape, and all fhould please!
Think on the numerous hours of fport
We spent with him in Fancy's court!
What ev'nings of fupreme delight!

They're patt--they re clos'd in endless night.
--For gratitude, for virtue's caufe,
Crown his laft exit with applaufe,

Let

Let him not want the lafting praife,
(That noble meed of well-fpent days!)
While, this his mortal drefs laid by
With ready grace, and decency,
Now changing on a nobler plan,
To blifsful faint from worthy man,
He makes, on yon celeftial fhore,
One eafy transformation more.

The rise of Tea.

THINK not, the fair deceiv'd by poet's lays,
Cupid in floth inglorious melts his days;
Think not enchain'd on Chloe's breaft he lies,
Or bathes himself in Delia's languid eyes;

Now here, now there, the wanton wanderer roves,
O'er Belgia's waters, or Italia's groves;

Now foothes the hearts of Gallia's filken fwains,
Now fires the tawny youth on Java's plains.
As o'er luxurious China's fields he fails,
Upborn by lovers fighs, and balmy gales,
Deep in the bofom of a fragrant glade,
Where pines flow-moving form'd a dancing fhade,
Where Zephyr ftole the rofe's rich perfume,
And wakeful almonds fhook their fnowy bloom,
Crown'd with rough thickets rofe a mofs-grown cave,
Whofe tinkling fides pour down a fparkling wave:
Unwilling to defert its native groves,

The ling'ring ftream in flow'ry lab'rinths roves:
The god of love feeds his infatiate fight,
Slow wave his loofe wings, and retard his flight.

But fay, what foft confufion feiz'd thy breast,
What heaving fighs thy inftant flame confeft,
When Thea broke from Morpheus' dewy arms,
Rofe from the grot, and blaz'd in all her charms?
Its fwelling orb no hoop enormous fpread, -
Like magic fphere to guard the tim'rous maid;
No torturing stays the yielding waift confin'd,
A blifs for lovers arms alone defign'd.
Her hair, by no malicious art reprefs'd,
Play'd in the wind, and wanton'd o'er her breaft,
Jove grew a fwan to prefs the Spartan fair,

What form to tafte thofe charms would Cupid wear?
Quick thro' the founding grove the god descends,
Quick at her feet a fighing fuppliant bends.
Can youth be deaf when Syren patsion fues?
Or how can beauty fly, when love purfues?

$ 3

Νο

« PreviousContinue »