THE PRINCESS AUGUSTA.

OUR vows are heard! Long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies:
Celestial-like her bounty fell,

Where modest Want and patient Sorrow dwell.
Want passed for Merit at her door,
Unseen the modest were supplied,

Her constant pity fed the poor

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.

And, oh! for this, while Sculpture decks thy shrine, And Art exhausts profusion round,

The tribute of a tear be mine,

A simple song, a sigh profound.
There Faith shall come-a pilgrim gray,

To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay!
And calm Religion shall repair

To dwell a weeping hermit there.

Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree
To blend their virtues while they think of thee.

DEATH.

LET us prize Death as the best gift of nature,
As a safe inn where weary travellers,

When they have journeyed through a world of cares,
May put off life, and be at rest for ever.

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:

The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmasked, shows me a friendly face, And is a terror only at a distance:

For as the line of life conducts me on

To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair, 'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open

To take us in when we have drained the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.
In that secure, serene retreat,

Where all the humble, all the great,
Promiscuously recline:

Where, wildly huddled to the eye,

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie:
May every bliss be thine!

And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest!
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest,
May peace, that claimed, while here, thy warmest love,
May blissful, endless peace be thine above!

HOPE.

THE wretch condemned 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,
Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.

MEMORY.

O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain;
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain.

Thou, like the world, the oppressed oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;

And he who wants each other blessing

In thee must ever find a foe.

AS PANTING FLIES.

As panting flies the hunted hind,
Where brooks refreshing stray;
And rivers through the valley wind,
That stop the hunter's way.

Thus we, O Lord, alike distresed,
For streams of mercy long:

Streams which cheer the sore oppressed
And overwhelm the strong.

CLOWN'S REPLY.

JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers,
To tell them the reason why asses had ears;

"An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters,
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;
Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces-
As I hope to be saved!—without thinking on asses."

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.

LUMINE ACOn dextro capta est Leonida sinistro,
Et poterat forma vincere uterque Deos.
Parve puer, lumen quod habes concede puellæ :
Sic tu cæcus Amor sic erit, illa Venus.

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND
BY LIGHTNING.

SURE 't was by Providence designed,
Rather in pity than in hate,

That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.

TRANSLATION OF A SOUTH AMERICAN
ODE.

IN all my Enna's beauties blest,
Amidst profusion still I pine;

For though she gives me up her breast,
Its panting tenant is not mine.

FROM SCARRON.

THUS when soft love subdues the heart
With smiling hopes and chilling fears,
The soul repels the aid of art,

And speaks in moments more than years.

FROM THE LATIN OF VIDA.

SAV, heavenly muse, their youthful frays rehearse,
Begin, ye daughters of immortal verse;
Exulting rocks have owned the power of song,
And rivers listened as they flowed along.

AN EPILOGUE,

INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.

THERE is a place-so Ariosto sings

A treasury for lost and missing things:

Lost human wits have places there assigned them,
And they, who lose their senses, there may find them.
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The Moon, says he :-but I affirm the Stage:-
At least in many things, I think, I see

His lunar, and our mimic world agree,
Both shine at night, for but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down:

Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is.
That mortals visit both to find their senses,
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scattered wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and dotes on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson,
The gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw.
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts,
The Mohawk too-with angry phrases stored
As "Dam'me, sir," and "Sir, I wear a sword:"-
Here lessoned for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense-for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our author's the least likely to grow wiser:
Has he not seen how you your favour place,
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet or garter,

How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
-No high-life scenes, no sentiment; the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone: and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.