But soon a wonder came to light, AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE. GOOD people all, with one accord, She strove the neighbourhood to please At church, in silks and satins new, But now her wealth and finery fled, The doctors found, when she was dead,- Z Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more,She had not died to-day. ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, Struck blind by Lightning. IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH. SURE 'twas by Providence design'd, THE GIFT. ΤΟ IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN. SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake, Dear mercenary beauty, What annual offering shall I make Expressive of my duty? My heart, a victim to thine eyes, A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, I'll give them when I get them. I'll give-but not the fullblown rose, Such shortlived offerings but disclose I'll give thee something yet unpaid, STANZAS ON WOMAN. WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, To hide her shame from every eye, LINES, INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE OF APRIL 3, 1800. E'EN have you seen, bathed in the morning dew, The budding rose its infant bloom display; When first its virgin tints unfold to view, It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day. So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came, [cheek; Youth's damask glow just dawning on her I gazed, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame, Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion weak. SONG, INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF 'SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.' Ан me! when shall I marry me? But I will rally and combat the ruiner: SONG. WEEPING, murmuring, complaining, Fears the' approaching bridal night. SONG, FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY, THE wretch condemn'd with life to part Still, still on hope relies; And every pang that rends the heart Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, And still, as darker grows the night, SONG. O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver, Thou, like the world, the' oppress'd oppressing, STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasures start. Oh, Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe, Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. |