Our gallant knights, in lov'd Eliza's reign,

France bade be 'dumb, and heart-struck haughty Spain.
Then the shrill summons of the vigorous chace,

Strung the firm nerve, and flush'd the ruddy face.
Fashion in vain her Proteus form display'd;
No public offerings at her shrine were paid:
She dared not then affrighted sense lay waste,
Or taint the sacred source of public taste.
Alike refinement tried her soft'ning sway
To catch the sturdy manners of the day:
Her efforts vain! Britannia's favour'd isle
Renounced the lurking evil of her smile.
Ye sons of Fame, whose memories impart
A constant transport to the feeling heart;
From souls like yours we catch a kindred ray,
And feel infused the genius of the day.
Ye Sidneys, Raleighs, whose undaunted eye
Flash'd the keen glance of ancient liberty,
Your lives with joy th' enraptur'd Muse surveys
That claim the meed of never-fading praise.
Oh! what a thrilling thought, that deathless Fame
To ages yet unborn shall tell each name
Of those immortal few, for Albion's good,
Who dauntless paid the tribute of their blood!
And as she waves her legend scroll on high
To other climes, in other tongues, shall cry,
"These are the deeds of those who never die!"
No more with dazzling light the regal ray
Shines unobscured, and cheers the coming day.
Sorrowing the Muse beholds the throne disgraced,
Its lustre tarnish'd and its gifts misplaced,
Daub'd with false honours, whilst Lothario's mien
Provokes the threat'ning eye of honest spleen;

Swell'd with base pride, exempt from ev'ry grace,
Vice in his heart, and folly in his face,

Studious to keep the naked poor in awe,
And grind their needy souls with harpy law,
With silly dimpling smirk, and bland grimace,
With smile that gads so sweetly o'er his face,
Methinks I see him labouring to be great,
Rais'd on the tottering stilts of awkward state;
First of the tribe who shift with ready art
The ductile feelings of a venal heart;

Sir Knight become, how big dear self appears,
And whilst the title greets his greedy ears,

He shakes his booby head, and wonders what he hears.
Ere lull'd to slumber in the nurse's arms,

The squalling infant thus a coral charms,
Pleas'd it attends the discord for awhile,
And hugs the glittering bauble with a smile.

}

TO MYRA,

AFTER RECEIVING TWO DRAWINGS, REPRESENTING A VIOLET AND A BEGGAR.

FROM these sad scenes where care and pale dismay

Darken with deepest cloud the coming day*,

Where Duty breathes in vain its lengthen'd sigh,
And wipes the stagnant tear from Sorrow's eye,

This alludes to some scenes of domestic affliction.

O'er all its hopes views hovering Death prevail,
And mourns the social comforts as they fail ;
Say, can a novice Muse, though you inspire,
In artless thanks awake her sadden'd lyre?
For me, whose eye surveys with vain delight
Pieria's stream and famed Parnassus height,
Let Mall in tears his story tell
Of widow'd dove, or sorrowing Philomel;
With all the tinsel'd harlotry of art

Win the weak mind, or touch the tasteless heart :
For me, let P's hireling pages chime,

Pert with the pretty cant of servile rhyme ;
Unaw'd by power or fame's delusive ray,
I value more a violet than a bay.

What though, dear girl, these worthless lays appear
But ill attuned to meet thy nicer ear,

Warm from the heart officious fondness flies,
And fears no frown but that of Myra's eyes.
For her what Gothic soul could e'er repine
To' invoke, those worst of all coquets, the Nine.
In Shandy mood with head on hand reclin'd,
To ev'ry ill of fate and phlegm resigned,
With surly silence, or with cold content,
I hear (on distant scenes my thoughts intent)
The tedious round of chat and compliment;
Perchance the heavy hour in part to kill,
And keep the drowsy mind from standing still,
Comes a dread summons from the fiend quadrille,
With sad civility the tricks I tell,

And gaze without emotion at a belle;

Whilst at my careless play and vacant air,
Gamblers look grave, and tabbies wish to swear;
Till parent Dullness claims her seat again,
Settles their features, and assumes her reign.-

At those lov'd shores where Yare with ceaseless sweep
Joins the dark bosom of the fearful deep,
Full many a truant wish and wayward look
Has absence cast and musing Fancy took,
Where Friendship vacant finds an elbow chair,
Looks round with joy and longs to linger there;
Where frank Good-humour ev'ry care beguiles,
With all the social family of smiles;
Charn'd at the thought, I picture Juliet near
Her sprightly glance I feel, her voice I hear,
Attentive sit, and meet, with tacit sigh
The softer cast of pensive Myra's eye;
Dwell long enamour'd on each blooming grace,
That lends its 'luring influence to her face;
With fluttering breast I view her nicest skill,
Teach the keen darts of Venus how to kill,
And touch with busy hand each lighter dress,
That guards the dimpled cheek and silken tress;
The filmy gauze, the ribband's dazzling dye,
(A mystic spell to catch the rustic eye),
The waving sash, the feather's nodding plume,
With all the powers of cambric and perfume;
Through such let meaner beauties of the day
Spread wide o'er vanquish'd hearts the female sway,
At ev'ry look and random glance lay low
A dangling coxcomb, or a flimsy beau ;
To souls like mine no influence they impart,
Who bribe the eye to captivate the heart.
Slaves to the laws of taste, let some admire
Paulo's bold stroke, or vivid Titian's fire;
With critic skill, and just precision trace,
Poussin's learn'd air, or soft Corregio's grace.

* Juliet, the sister of the lady to whom these verses were addressed.

In mute amaze let others trembling stand,
And feel the dark sublime of Rosa's hand;
Be mine the task their varied styles to view,
And mark their blended beauties met in you.
When the lone wretch by age and sickness led,
Bides the chill storm, and begs for bitter bread,
Taught by thy moving hand my tears shall flow
The hasty followers of his helpless woe,
Oft as I strive to chase those griefs away,
That cloud the sunless evening of his day.
Meanwhile Affection fondly fix'd on you—
(The lovely source from whence its pity grew),
Viewing thy beggar form with joy shall boast,
That she who excites it best, must feel it most.

ON A FRAGMENT OF SOME VERSES

WRITTEN BY A LADY IN PRAISE OF SOLITUDE.

MYRA! dear maid, full many a weary hour

In joyless speed has pass'd, since first mine eye
Met the faint outline of your early hopes,
Moist with the purest dew of Castaly:
And who, ah! who, can willingly resign,
The distant shadows of ideal joys,

In youth's fair morn by treacherous Faney form'd,
That, like the floating rack on yonder sky,
Pass into nought as they had never been?

The time was once, when oft the long day through,