By lying bards in forms so various shewn, Some say, of idleness and pleasure bred, His wanton head with fading chaplets bound, Then laughing flies, nor hears their fruitless moan. Some say, from Etna's burning entrails torn, More fierce than tigers on the Libyan plain, With darts and flames some arm his feeble hands, 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, When Adam's blameless suit was heard on high, At love's approach all earth rejoic'd, each hill, 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, 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. Chapone's Miscellanies. TO A LADY WHO HAD LEFT PETERSBURG FOR ENGLAND. LESBIA, return-I cannot say, To flowery fields, and seasons gay: May run mellifluent in my rhymes : 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. Chapone's Miscellanies, SONNET. 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, For still she bids soft pity's melting eye Ah! then, how dear the muse's favours cost, Charlotte Smith's Sonnets. SONNET TO R. P. CAREW, ESQ. To climb at early dawn the mountain side, Mine from the purple heath's horizon wide, And if such scenes the rising soul expand, Where nature closelier knits the social tie, A PRAYER. AMID the ceaseless din of human strife, |