IP, when an Angel form and face are join'd
To the pure radiance of an Angel mind;
If, when from affectation free we trace
Of courtly elegance each finish'd grace;
If, when the speaking eye and witching smile
Beam blameless mirth and love devoid of guile:
In the assemblage bright at once we own
Of female worth the full perfection shown.
Then, lovely Farren! Derby shall receive
The richest dower that Hymen e'er could give.
Sweet sister of the Comic Muse!-no more
Though you shall hear of praise the enraptur'd roar,
When excellence of Art unrivalled draws
From fascinated crowds sincere applause ; ·
Yet though our hands are by respect repress'd,
Still glows warm admiration in the breast:
And though to higher circles call'd, while still
Each shining character you justly fill,
The splendid duties of exalted life,
Or the mild claims of parent, friend, and wife,
Still shall you move on the World's wider Stage,
The pride, the darling, of a polish'd age.
ON HER GIVING THE AUTHOR A GOLD WATCH-CHAIN.
Or fair Susannah's Present vain,
And proud to show her golden Chain;
Yet knowing shame must wait on those
Who Ladies' favours boast in Prose,
I call'd the Muses to my aid,
And woo'd in form each tuneful maid.
I twist my pen, I scratch my hair,
I bite my nails, I move my chair;
Till, finding ev'ry effort vain,
Enrag'd I curse the jilting train.
Reproaches reach the dullest ears: Behold! an angry Muse appears ;"Rash Votary," she cries," forbear! "Nor ply an unavailing care.
"You claim not now such trifling verse
"As once, for ruffles or a purse,
"Were sent to some unletter'd maid ;
"Or such as trifling flattery paid,
"When Baker's shop repair'd at morn
"The fan that last night's dance had torn;
"Or such as round the Archers' board
"In festive chorus loud are roar'd;-
"Far different is your present task ;
"Strains of a higher mood you ask :
"Strains clear, melodious, rich, and chaste, "Strains worthy *****'s polish'd taste.-
"Enough! enough!" I hopeless cried, And threw th' unfinish'd task aside.
THE DEATH OF JAMES DAY, ESQ.
Ir pensive Genius ever pour'd the tear
Of votive anguish o'er the Poet's bier;
If drooping Britain ever knew to mourn
In silent sorrow o'er the Patriot's urn;
Here let them weep their Day's untimely doom,
And hang their fairest garlands o'er his Tomb.
For never Poet's hand did yet consign
So pure a wreath to Virtue's holy shrine;
For never Patriot tried before to raise
His Country's welfare on so firm a base :
Glory's bright form he taught her youth to see,
And bade them merit Freedom to be free.
No sculptur'd marble need his worth proclaim,
No herald's sounding style record his name,
For long as sense and virtue fame can give,
In his own works his deathless name shall live.
ON RETURNING HER FAN AFTER DANCING.
Go, happy ensign of supreme command,
And grace again my fair Eliza's hand.
Far in the vale when I deserted rove
With hasty footsteps through the silent grove;
Or, wand'ring slow by Isis' sedgy side,
Proclaim her beauties to the listening tide;
Oft shall thy leaves, with careless grace display'd,
With gentle breezes fan the lovely maid:
Or when some other youth shall haply chance
To trace with her the mazes of the dance,
Thy gales, than those Elysium felt more blest,
Shall cool the fervour of her glowing breast.
Then, as her partner tries each varied art
That skill can frame, or eloquence impart ;
Rifles for her the lily and the rose,
And borrows perfumes from each flower that blows, That all their charms united may declare
How sweet she is, how blooming, and how fair:
Oh, tell her not such compliments to prize,
Which real passion ever must despise.
He who with raptur'd eye, like mine, has scen
Her angel face, her love-inspiring mien,
Has mark'd, diffusing softness through the whole,
Her winning sensibility of soul,
Till, thrill'd in every nerve, the amorous pain
Beat in each pulse and glow'd in every vein,...
Tell her, will transports feel whose fond excess
No studied form of language can express-
Will find, like me, the power of words too faint,
Such charms, such sweetness, and such worth to paint.
To the vain trophies of the proud and gay
Let servile Flattery raise the specious lay.
Seymour! to decorate thy marble Bier,
True Grief shall pour the tributary Tear;
Shall o'er the tomb with silent Anguish bend,
Where rests in Death the Father, Husband, Friend :—
A Father, whose parental care we trace
In the young virtues of his rising race;
A Husband, whose connubial love is shown
In her sad sighs who rears this votive Stone;
A Friend, whose merits fill the breast that pays,
To worth it mourns, this heartfelt strain of praise.
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