If with high-bounding pride

He return to his bride, Renouncing the gore-crimsoned spear:

All his toils are repaid

When, embracing the maid, From her eye-lid he kisses the Tear.

Sweet scene of my youth,

Seat of Friendship and Truth, Where love chased each fast-feeting year;

Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd,

For a last look I turn’d, But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.

Though my vows I can pour

To my Mary no more,
My Mary to Love once so dear;

In the shade of her bower

I remember the hour
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest,

May she live ever blest,
Her name still my heart must revere;

With a sigh I resign

What I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tear,

Ye friends of my heart,

Ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near;

If again we shall meet

In this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

When my soul wings her flight
To the regions of night,

And my corse shall recline on its bier;

As ye pass by the tomb

Where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

May no marble bestow

The splendour of woe
Which the children of vanity rear;

No fiction of fame

Shall blazon my name,
All I ask-all I wish is a Tear.

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,

Delivered previous to the performance of The

Wheel of Fortune' at a Private Theatre. Since the refinement of this polished age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek; Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence though she find not fame. Still, not for her alone we wish respect, Others appear more conscious of defect; To-night no veteran Roscii you behold, In all the arts of scenic action old; No Cooke, no KEMBLE, can salute you here, No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear ;To-night, you throng to witness the debut Of embryo actors, to the Drama new; Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try, Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly;

Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler only fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise,
But all our dramatis personæ wait
In fond suspense this crisis of our fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward ;
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.
Surely the last will some protection find,
None to the softer sex can prove unkind;
Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest Censor to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail;
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX.

The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a

Morning Paper. OUR nation's foes lament on Fox's death, But bless the hour when Pitt resign’d his breath; These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue, We give the palm where Justice points its due.' To which the Author of these Pieces sent the

following Reply. Oh factious viper ! whose envenomed tooth Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth; What, though our nation's foes' lament the fate, With generous feeling, of the good and great; Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name Of him whose mead exists in endless fame?

When Pitt expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits war not with the dead:'
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicted state :
When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd;
He, too, is fall’n, who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died ;
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
* These feelings wide let sense and truth unclue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;'
Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail,
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes alike his talents own.
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine,
Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For PITT and Pitt alone, has dared to ask.

STANZAS TO A LADY,

With the Poems of Camoens. This votive pledge of fond esteem

Perhaps, dear Girl! from me thou’lt prize ; It sings of Love's enchanting dream,

A theme we never can despise.'

Who blames it but the envious fool,

The old and disappointed maid ? Or pupil of the prudish school,

In single sorrow doom'd to fade? Then read, dear Girl! with feeling read,

For thou wilt ne'er be one of those;
To thee in vain I shall not plead

In pity for the Poet's woes.
He was in sooth a genuine bard;

His was no faint, fictitious flame;
Like his, may love be thy reward,

But not thy hapless fate the same.

TO ME
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,

With bright but mild affection shine :
Though they might kindle less desire,

Love, more than mortal, would be thine. For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,

Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, We must admire, but still despair ;

That fatal glance forbids esteem. When nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,

So much perfection in thee shone, She feard that, too divine for earth,

The skies might claim thee for their own. Therefore, to guard her dearest work,

Lest angels might dispute the prize, She bade a secret lightning lurk

Within those once celestial eyes. These might the boldest sylph appal,

When gleaming with meridian blase; Thy beauty must enrapture all,

But who can dare thine ardent gaze?