Even when her end was swiftly drawing near,
And dissolution hover'd o'er her head;

Even then so beauteous did her form appear,
That none who saw her but admiring said,
Sure so much beauty never could be dead.
Yet the dark lash of her expressive eye,
Bent lowly down upon the languid-

SONNETS.

LOFFT, unto thee, one tributary song,

The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring; She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng,

And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring. Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth,

Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth, And to thy bosom snatch'd misfortune's child: Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal,

Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire,

Would say how sweetly thou could'st sweep the lyre, And shew thy labours for the public weal,

Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme,

But ah! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous theme.