By lying bards in forms so various shewn,
Deck'd with false charms, or arm'd with terrors vain,
Who shall his real properties make known,
Declare his nature, and his birth explain?
Some say, of idleness and pleasure bred,
The smiling babe on beds of roses lay,
There with sweet honey-dews of fancy fed,
His blooming beauties open'd to the day.
His wanton head with fading chaplets bound,
Dancing, he leads his silly vot'ries on
To precipices deep o'er faithless ground,
Then laughing flies, nor hears their fruitless moan.
Some say, from Etna's burning entrails torn,
More fierce than tigers on the Libyan plain,
Begot in tempests, and in thunders born,
Love wildly rages like the foaming main.
With darts and flames some arm his feeble hands,
His infant brow with regal honours crown;
Whilst vanquish'd reason, bound in silken bands,
Meanly submissive, falls before his throne.
Each fabling poet sure alike mistakes
The gentle pow'r that reigns o'er tender hearts! Soft love no tempest hurls, no thunder shakes, Nor lifts the flaming torch, nor poison'd darts.
Heav'n-born, the brightest seraph of the sky,
For Eden's bower he left his blissful seat,
When Adam's blameless suit was heard on high,
And beauteous Eve first cheer'd his lone retreat.
At love's approach all earth rejoic'd, each hill,
Each grove that learnt it from the whisp'ring gale;
Joyous the birds their liveliest chorus fill,
And richer fragrance breathes in ev'ry vale.
Well pleas'd in Paradise awhile he roves,
With innocence and friendship hand in hand; ; Till sin found entrance in the with'ring groves, And frighted innocence forsook the land.
But love still faithful to the guilty pair,
With them was driv'n amidst a world of woes, Where oft he mourns his lost companions dear, And trembling flies before his rigid foes.
Honour, in burnish'd steel completely clad,
And hoary wisdom, oft against him arm:
Suspicion pale, and disappointment sad,
Vain hopes and frantic fears his heart alarm.
Fly then, dear Stella, fly th' unequal strife,
Since fate forbids that peace should dwell with love! Friendship's calm joys shall glad thy future life,
And virtue lead to endless bliss above.
WHO HAD LEFT PETERSBURG FOR ENGLAND.
LESBIA, return-I cannot say,
To flowery fields, and seasons gay:
The muse, desponding, cannot sing
Of the sweet garniture of spring;
Of sunny hills, and verdant vales,
And groves, and streams, and gentle gales;
These, in more hospitable climes,
May run mellifluent in my rhymes :
For winter, hoary and severe,
Rules an imperious despot here.
In chains the headlong flood he binds,
He rides impetuous on the winds;
Before him awful forests bend,
And tempest in his train contend.
But what, tho' wintry winds prevail,
And Boreas sends his rattling hail,
Siberian snows, and many a blast,
Howling along the dreary waste,
From Samoida to the shores,
Where black with storms the Euxine roars;
Thy blameless wit, and polish'd sense
Can ease and gaiety dispense.
Come, then, enchanting maid! and bring
The kindly influence of the spring;
Come, with thy animating air,
And nature's weary waste repair.
THE partial muse has, from my earliest hours,
Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread, And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers, To weave fantastic garlands for my head.
But far, far happier is the lot of those
Who never learn'd her dear delusive art,
Which, while it decks the head with many a rose,
Reserves the thorn-to fester in the heart.
For still she bids soft pity's melting eye
Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove,
Points every pang, and deepens every sigh
Of mourning friendship, or unhappy love.
Ah! then, how dear the muse's favours cost,
If those paint sorrow best who feel it most.
Charlotte Smith's Sonnets.
SONNET TO R. P. CAREW, ESQ.
To climb at early dawn the mountain side,
Ere devious herds have brush'd the dews away,
Be mine: at noon amid yon elms to stray,
Whose artless tufts the cooling current hide.
Mine from the purple heath's horizon wide,
To trace the splendours of declining day,
Until the moon my homeward path to guide,
Distain the forest hedge with silver grey,
And if such scenes the rising soul expand,
The flutter'd heart if simple bliss becalm,
Where nature closelier knits the social tie,
No light addition should my Carew's hand,
With equal friendship's animating balm,
To letter'd ease the place of fame supply.
Warwick's Sonnets.
AMID the ceaseless din of human strife,
The groans of entering and departing life;
Amid the songs of joy, the wails of woe,
That living nature utters here below;
Amid the harmony of all the spheres
In concert unenjoy'd by mortal ears;
Amid heaven's trumpets loud by angels blown,
And lyres of Seraphim around thy throne,
O great Supreme! and while their voices join,
Proclaiming praise and glory only thine,
Presuming more, perhaps, than angels dare,
A trembling worm of earth intrudes his prayer.
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