Should worldly business call away,

Who now shall in my absence fondly mourn,
Count ev'ry minute of the loit'ring day,
Impatient for my quick return?
Should aught my bofom discompose,
Who now with fweet complacent air,
Shall fmooth the rugged brow of Care,
And soften all my woes?

Too faithful Mem'ry-Ceafe, O cease-
How shall I e'er regain my peace?

(O, to forget her!)-but how vain each art, Whilft ev'ry virtue lives imprinted on my heart!

And thou, my little cherub, left behind.

To hear a father's plaints, to share his woes,
When Reafon's dawn informs thy infant mind,
And thy fweet lisping tongue shall ask the cause;
How oft with forrow fhall mine eyes run o'er,
When, twining round my knees, I trace
Thy mother's fmile upon thy face?
How oft to my full heart fhalt thou restore
Sad mem❜ry of my joys-ah, now no more!
By bleffings once enjoy'd, now more diftrefs'd,
More beggar by the riches once poffefs'd.
My little darling!--dearer to me grown
By all the tears thou'st caus'd-(O strange to hear !)
Bought with a life yet dearer than thy own,
Thy cradle purchas'd with thy mother's bier:
Who now shall seek with fond delight,

Thy infant fteps to guide aright?

She, who with doating eyes would gaze

On all thy little artless ways,

By all thy foft endearments blefs'd,

And clasp thee oft with transport to her breast,

Alas! is gone-Yet fhalt thou

A father's deareft, tendereft love.

prove

And,

And, O fweet senseless smiler (envy'd state!)
As yet unconscious of thy hapless fate,
When years thy judgment shall mature,
And Reason fhews thofe ills it cannot cure,
Wilt thou, a father's grief t' affwage,

For virtue prove the phoenix of the earth?
(Like her, thy mother dy'd to give thee birth)
And be the comfort of my age!

When fick and languishing I lie,

Wilt thou my Emma's wonted care supply?

And oft, as to thy lift'ning ear

Thy mother's virtues and her fate I tell,

Say, wilt thou drop the tender tear,

Whilft on the mournful theme I dwell?
Then, fondly stealing to thy father's fide,
Whene'er thou feeft the foft distress,
Which I would vainly feek to hide,

Say, wilt thou strive to make it less?

To foothe my forrows all thy cares employ,

And in my cup of grief infufe one drop of joy?

EVENING ADDRESS TO A NIGHTINGALE.

BY THE SAME.

WEET bird! that kindly perching near,

ST

Pour'ft thy plaints melodious in mine ear;
Not, like bafe worldlings, tutor'd to forego
The melancholy haunts of Woe;

Thanks for thy forrow-soothing strain :

For, furely, thou haft known to prove,

Like me, the pangs of hapless love,

Elfe why fo feelingly complain,

And with thy piteous notes thus fadden all the grove?

Say,

Say, doft thou mourn thy ravish'd mate,
That oft enamour'd on thy ftrains has hung?
Or has the cruel hand of Fate

Bereft thee of thy darling young?

Alas! for BOтH I weep

In all the pride of youthful charms,

A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms!
A lovely babe, that fhould have liv'd to blefs,
And fill my doating eyes with frequent tears,
At once the fource of rapture and distress,
The flatt'ring prop of my declining years!
In vain from death to rescue I effay'd,

By ev'ry art that Science could devife,
Alas! it languifh'd for a mother's aid,

And wing'd it's flight to feek her in the fkies. Then, O! our comforts be the fame;

At ev❜ning's peaceful hour,

To fhun the noify paths of wealth and fame,
And breathe our forrows in this lonely bow'r.

But why, alas! to thee complain!

To thee-unconscious of my pain!

Soon fhalt THOU cease to mourn thy lot severe,
And hail the dawning of a happier year:
The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring
Again fhall plume thy fhatter'd wing;
Again thy little heart fhall tranfport prove,
Again fhall flow thy notes refponfive to thy love.
But, O! for ME in vain may seasons roll,
Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears;
Deploring ftill the COMFORT OF MY SOUL,
I court my forrows by increafing years..

Tell me, thou fyren, Hope; deceiver, fay,

Where is the promis'd period of my woes? Full three long ling'ring years have roll'd away, And yet I weep, a ftranger to repose.

O, what

O, what delufion did thy tongue employ ! • That Emma's fatal pledge of love,

• Her laft bequest-with all a mother's care,
The bitterness of forrow should remove,
Soften the horrors of defpair,

And chear a heart long loft to joy !?
How oft, when fondling in mine arms,
Gazing enraptur'd on it's angel-face, 1
My foul the maze of Fate would vainly trace,
And burn with all a father's fond alarms!

And, O! what flatt'ring fcenes had Fancy feign'd!

How did I rave of bleffings yet in store!

Till ev'ry aching fenfe was sweetly pain'd, And

my full heart could bear, nor tongue could utter more.

Juft Heav'n!' I cried-with recent hopes elate,
Yet I will live-will live, tho' Emma's dead-
So long bow'd down beneath the storms of Fate,
Yet will I raife my woe-dejected head!

My little Emma, now my ALL,

• Will want a father's care;

Her looks, her wants, my rash refolves recal,
And for her fake the ills of life I'll bear:

And oft together we'll complain,

(Complaint, the only blifs my foul can know)

From me, my child fhall learn the mournful strain,

And prattle tales of woe.

And, O! in that aufpicious hour,

When Fate refigns her perfecuting pow'r,

• With duteous zeal her hand shall close,

No more to weep-my forrow-ftreaming eyes,

• When death gives mifery repose,

And opes a glorious paffage to the skies."

Vain thought! it must not be.-She too is dead

The flatt'ring scene is o'erMy hopes for ever-ever fled

And vengeance can no more.

Crush'd by misfortune-blafted by disease-
And none, none left to bear a friendly part!
To meditate my welfare, health, or ease,
Or foothe the anguish of an aching heart!
Now all one gloomy fcene, till welcome Death,
With lenient hand, (O falfely deem'd fevere!)
Shall kindly stop my grief-exhaufted breath,
And dry up ev'ry tear:

Perhaps, obfequious to my will,

But, ah! from my affections far remov'd!
The laft fad office ftrangers may fulfil,

As if I ne'er had been belov'd ;
As if, unconscious of poetick fire,
I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre;
As if my niggard hand ne'er dealt relief,
Nor my heart melted at another's grief.

Yet-while this weary life shall last,

While yet my tongue can form th' impassion'd strain,
In piteous accents fhall the Muse complain,

And dwell with fond delay on bleffings pass'd:
For, O! how grateful to a wounded heart,
The tale of mifery to impart!

From others eyes bid artless forrows flow,

And raise esteem upon the base of woe!

E'en HE*, the nobleft of the tuneful thrọng,

Shall deign my love-lorn tale to hear,

Shall catch the foft contagion of my fong,

And pay my pensive Muse the tribute of a tear.

* Lord Lyttelton.

ODE