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The natural Head, consider good my Brain,
To the Head politic bears some allusion;
The limbs and body must support your reign
And all when you do wrong is in confusion.
But Caput mine, in truth I can't support
A Head as lazy as if born at court.

The verse goes on, and we shall have, my friend,
A poem ere the subject we determine.

But every thing should have some useful end.
That single line itself is worth a sermon !
The moral point as obvious is as good,-
So gentle Brain! I thank you and conclude.




Tho' Venus' Handmaids three, adorning
Your lovely form delight to stay ;
Tho' softer than the bloom of morning,
your cheek the blushes play;



Yet, pardon, pardon, lovely maid,

The rash presumption of your Poet!

Take one cosmetic to your aid,

And tell the world-they all may know it.


"Tis neither wash, nor patch, nor paint,

That will our heedless hearts beguile;

It is, and 'twould become a saint,

The sweet cosmetic of a smile!


Nor use it only when you dress,

But on your mien for ever bear it ; O! 'tis an amulet to bless

Both those that see, and those that wear it!

Nought from your lip the smile shou'd sever,
For life a tenant let it be.

"Twill brighten all' your charms for ever;
And bend, O! bend that smile on me !

C. H. S.


At CROMER, 1795.

Hail scene sublime! along the Eastern hills
Night draws her veil, and lo! the *circling lamp
That guides the vessel thro' the ambush'd rocks,
Hangs in bright contrast on her dusky brow,
And smiles away its gloom.-See from the West,
A branching stream of silver radiance flows
On Ocean's bosom, till it emulates
The trembling lustre of the milky way;
While the dark cliffs projecting o'er the waves,
And frowning, (Fancy whispers) envious seem
Of the soft light they share not. In the South,
The star of evening sheds her pallid rays;
While from the humble cottages that skirt
Yon hill's uneven side, lights redly shine
Contrasting Art with Nature, and fill up

The light in Cromer light-house revolves.

The chain of objects that leads captive sight,
And to the shrine of meditation draws

The wanderer's soul.-But hark! the awaken'd Owl
Majestic, slow, on sounding wing sails by,
And, rous'd to active life, enjoys the hour
That gives his winking eyelids leave to rest,
While his bright eye, dim in day's dazzling light
Now into distance shoots its beams, and guides
The unwieldy spoiler to his creeping prey,
Which having seiz'd, again on murmuring wing
He cleaves the tranquil air, and to his nest
Proudly bears home the feast, he toil'd to gain;
Then from the bosom of some thick-wove tree
Breathes in dull note his votive strain to Night,
Friend of his daring, season of his joy.

Here could I stay, now list'ning, gazing now,
Till all that crowded, busy, life can give
Sunk from my view, lost in the splendid vast
Of Nature's pure magnificence, that still
Will shine and charm for ages. FASHION's hand
Which, in the world's gay scenes omnipotent,

Makes, and destroys, and the same object bids

Delight one moment, and disgust the next,

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