The genuine muse removes the thin disguise, Seems the poor soldier, as the mighty king! Alike I shun in labour'd strain to show, How Britain more than triumph'd, tho' she fled, Where Louis stood, where march'd the column slow, I turn from these and dwell upon the dead. Yet much my beating breast respects the brave; Why shou'd they seek for greatness in the grave? Nor think 'tis but in war the brave excel,- Here faithful friendship 'mid the battle fell, Alas! the solemn slaughter I retrace, That checks life's current circling thro' my veins, Bath'd in moist sorrow many a beauteous face, And gave a grief, perhaps, that still remains. I can no more—an agony too keen Absorbs my senses, and my mind subdues; Hard were that heart that here could beat serene, Or the just tribute of a pang refuse. But lo! thro' yonder op'ning clouds afar Then Fontenoy, farewell! yet much I fear, From barb'rous Turkey to Britannia's shore, NIGHT. THE western sun is sunk beneath the main, Hush'd are the birds on ev'ry leafy spray; The moon full orb'd begins her silent reign, And man now rests from all the cares of day. The distant clock proclaims the midnight hour, The river's murmur fills the sighing gale; The screaming owl from the dismantled tow'r, Gives to the night her long resounding wail. G The tortur'd breast now paints athwart the gloom, And stops, and trembles at each breath of wind. Be mine the solemn scene, from folly free, The peaceful hour, which providence has giv❜n, To raise my wand'ring thoughts O God! to thee! To calm my mind, and wing my soul to heav'n. C. S. THE ROSE-BUD. TO LAVINIA, AT FIFTEEN. WITHIN this cool embow'ring shade, Oh! blest with youth and form'd for love, Lavinia regent of the grove! Of sense refin'd and simple taste, With rural innocency grac'd; That unaffected state of mind, Which few from books, or breeding find; Alike from awkard silence free, Whose conduct all must so approve, To folly sooth your vig'rous sense: Euphrosyne. AN ESTIMATE OF LIFE. IN bloom of youth, with spirits gay, Wholesale laid in my stock of joys, But age comes on with gouty pains; Euphrosyne. THE FAIR MORALIST. As late beneath yon spreading shade With pensive air and downcast look. She view'd the flower which, in her walk, And, withering, droop'd its languid head. |