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Then fly! thou form of her I 'love!

Since thou can'st bring me nought but pain; Till time shall every doubt remove,

And hope and joy be in thy train.

P 2


SWEET flower, that on the fountain's side,

Impartest fragrance to the air, To cull thee, in thy lowly pride,

Oft shall the youthful bard repair.

The winds that bear thy sweets along

To kiss thee, stay their course awhile, The bees around thee, frequent throng,

Departing fraught with honied spoil.

Thy rural charms to all are dear

Who hate the garden's flaunting train, And thou shalt Mary's bosom grace,

While gaudy Tulips sigh in vain.



O HESPER, golden light of love!

Gay glory of the azure night! While lonely and astray I rove,

Assist me with thy friendly light.

Superior far thy lovely ray

To all the stars the sky contains; The moon alone with brighter day

Amid the nightly myriads reigns.

But she her tardy light delays,

Nor heeds the wandering lover's care: Oh shine then with a brighter blaze,

And guide my footsteps to the fair.

No midnight robber courts thine aid,

No pallid murderer greets thee now; But led by love, I seek the maid,

The object of my fervent vow.


WITH raptur'd heart and smiling eye

The mother view'd her little pride, And future fancied scenes of joy

To bless her favourite's life descried.

Revolving years seem'd fled away,

And now her darling child appears Mature in age to be her stay

And sooth a parent's tender cares.

Ah do not thus with ardour vain

The ways of future fate explore! Erase those pictur'd scenes again

Thy little pride is now no more!

Sleep, lovely innocent, in peace!

But grief pervades thy mother's breast, Who lets her silent woe increase,

Forgetting that thou art at rest.

Oft shall the bosom swelling high

Proclaim the mourner's secret pain, And many a wishful, deep drawn sigh,

And many a tear remember Jane.

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To a Catalogue of Gentlemen, supposed to have been written by

Miss of Annapolis.

SINCE poetry lately has been much in vogue
Let us try to unriddle the new Catalogue;
But for sake of his feelings, we'll not name the first,
Who with such a sad disposition is curst.
Most truly the auth'ress the picture did draw
When she sketch'd the bad poet, from poor Dr. Shaw.
And when she the finical Merchant would show
The world one and all, cry out Mr. Mun**e.
The tray'ller can suit Mr. J*****s alone
And that Wil*****n shuffles his feet is well known,
And lastly, well pleased, shall the writer attend
To own the just praises of Maynard, his friend.
Thus having reviewed the six beaux as they pass
In turn to the Ladies, let's hold up the glass,
And if it should give a true representation,
Let them not be offended at their situation,


FORM’D to fill each heart with love,
With angelic grace to move,
See her thro' the mazy dance
With bewitching air advance,

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