то

LADY CATHARINE MURRAY,

DURING HER RECOVERY FROM AN ILLNESS, OCCASIONED BY HER CLOATHS CATCHING FIRE,

1781.

With a green and yellow melancholy

She fat, like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.

SHAKESPEAR.

HAD our great tragic Bard (whose master-hand

The patient VIOLA's fweet portrait plann'd)
Beheld fair CATHARINE to pain confign'd,

Yet tow'ring o'er her fate with ftrength of mind,
In other colours he had then display'd

The pleafing image of his patient maid!

Not with dim tints of yellow and of green

Would he have ficklied o'er the fufferer's mien :
But in a fhading cap that veils the face,
Half stealing from the fight each foften'd grace,
He would have pictur'd to the ftedfast view

A cheek a little pal'd with languor's hue;

An

L

An eye, that, beaming with the rays of sense,
Speaks to the foul an artless eloquence,

And feems a look of gratitude to throw

On those whose feelings fhare the sufferer's woe:
And last her lips (whofe blufhes well difplay
The glowing colour of the ruby's ray)
Where Patience dwells, refufing to complain,
With Refignation that can fmile at pain!

*This accomplished young lady was married, in 1782, to the Honourable EDWARD BOUVERIE, and died in 1783.

THE

THE

LOVER'S DYING REQUEST.

These lines are a feeble imitation of fome beautiful verfes written in the SWEDISH language by the COMTE DE CREUTZ, late Minifter at STOCK

HOLM.

BEAR me, ye friends, when ebbing life is o'er,
When the grief-wounded heart shall bleed no more,
Bear me to yonder wood's fequefter'd gloom,
To fleep unknown, unmark'd by any tomb!
To feep where willows crown the water's fide,
Whose gentle furges murmuringly glide!-
There ANNA, far remote from human fight,
Oft penfive fits and woos th' approaching night:
Hafte from thy cloud, oh Cynthia, burst away,
The pleafing fhadow of her form difplay :

Let

Let the foft texture of her length'ning shade
Repofe along the fpot where mine is laid:
Where thus her prefence to my wishes giv'n,
Death would rejoice, my grave would then be heav'n.

1

ΤΟ

TO

A L A D Y,

WHO LAMENTED SHE COULD NOT SING.

OH! give to LYDIA, ye bleft Pow'rs, I cried,

A voice!' the only gift ye have denied.

“༑ ་

A voice!' fays VENUS, with a laughing air, A voice! ftrange object of a Lover's pray'r! 6 Say-fhall your chofen Fair resemble most Yon Philomel, whofe voice is all her boast? 'Or, curtain'd round with leaves, yon mournful Dove, That hoarfely murmurs to the conscious grove?' -Still more unlike, I faid, be LYDIA's note The pleafing tone of Philomela's throat, So to the hoarfenefs of the murm'ring Dove, She joins ('tis all I afk) the Turtle's love.

A SONNET