High o'er the sinner's humble head Oppressor of creation fair! "Be chas'd for ever thro' the wood, 'Twas hush'd-one flash of sombre glare With yellow ting'd the forests brown; Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, And horror chill'd each nerve and bone Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill; Brought storm and tempest on its wing. Earth heard the call-her entrails rend From yawning rifts with many a yell, Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend, The misbegotten dogs of hell. What ghastly huntsman next arose, The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn, With wild despair's reverted eye, Close, close behind he marks the throng; With bloody fangs and eager cry, In frantic fear he scours along. Still, still shall last the dreadful chace, This is the horn, and hound, and horse, The wakeful priest oft drops a tear EPISTLE FROM SIR WILLIAM YOUNG TO HIS LADY, On having lost his Eye. How vain are all the joys of man, By nature born to certain sorrow, Since none, not ev'n the wisest, can Insure the pleasures of to-morrow! These eyes, so late my envy'd boast, Its fellow weeping for its brother. Yet still I'm blest while one remains With tenderest love, and cheerful duty. Had I for her in battle strove, The fatal blow I'd borne with pleasure, And still, to prove my constant love, With joy I'd lose my single treasure. Ev'n then, the beauties of her mind Who can't my Celia's charms discover. E'en then I'd find one solid bliss, LINES FROM DR. CORBET TO HIS SON VINCENT CORBET. WHAT I shall leave thee none can tell, But all shall say I wish thee well. I wish thee (Vin.) before all wealth, Nor too much wealth or wit come to thee, I wish thee all thy mother's graces, THE WILLOW. WHERE once thou, sweet Willow! embrac'd the clear tide, And fresh flowing streams made thy tresses so pure, How oft with my fair have I sat by your side, And wish'd that our joys might for ever endure! How gay o'er our heads the green alder's would sigh, And whispering breezes consent to our bliss! As they stole through the reeds, I would press her more nigh, Lest zephyr, too bold, should contend for a kiss. When I lean'd on her bosom, and pip'd to her praise, While thou, lovely Willow! look'd down on the stream, Could I blame the young shepherds that envy'd my lays, If a nymph so divine would attend to my theme? But ah! gentle Willow, how sad is the change! She has broke all her vows, and forsaken her swain: I fly to thy shade, for wherever I range Shews despair to my anguish, and adds to my pain. Then trust not, sweet Willow! these smile-springing skies; The stream that reflects thee so fair and so kind, When torrents descend, like her frowns they will rise, The stains of the stream are like those of her mind. |