LINES

On the PORTRAIT of a LADY.

Tender as the sweets of Spring Wafted on the western gale, When the breeze with dewy wing Wanders thro' the Primrose vale ;

Tranquil as the hush of night
To the Hermit's holy dream;
While the Moon with lovely light,
Quivers on the ripling stream;

Cheerful as the Beams of Morn, Laughing on the Mountain's side;

Spotless as the Cygnet's form,

Heaving on the silver'd Tide.

Who can paint this varied grace,

Charms that mock the mimic art?

Yet, my Laura! these I trace,

With the pencil of the Heart.

Written at TENBURY, Worcestershire, On disturbing a HEDGE-SPARROW from her Nest.

By EDMUND EVERARD.

Little Flutterer! swiftly flying,

Here is none to harm thee near;
Kite nor Hawk, nor School-Boy prying:
Little Flutterer! cease to fear.

One, who would protect thee ever,

From the School-Boy, Kite and Hawk,

Musing, now obtrudes, but never

Dreamt of plunder in his walk.

He, no weasel stealing slily,
Would permit thy eggs to take;
Nor the Pole-cat, nor the wily
Adder, nor the wreathed Snake.

May no Cuckoo, wandering near thee,
Lay her egg within thy nest;

Nor thy young ones, born to cheer thee,
Be destroy'd by such a guest.

S

Thou, perchance, poor little trembler !
Art like one whom I could name:
Fearful, fluttering, no dissembler,

And like thee, unknown to fame.

One, who long hath sought, despairing.
For a secret, silent dell,
Whither he and his repairing

Might with quiet comfort dwell.

There at eve, and after labour,
Would he trill his roundelay;
And, perchance, with pipe or tabor,
Call the early morn away.

Little Flutterer! hast thou never

Seen, amid thy wanderings wild,

Such a spot, which might be ever,
Consecrate to Fancy's child?

Little Flutterer! swiftly flying,

Here is none to harm thee near;

Kite nor Hawk, nor School-Boy prying:

Little Flutterer! cease to fear.

1799.

To an unfortunate WOMAN,

Whom the Author knew in the days of her Innocence.

Composed at the THEATRE.

Sufferer, that with sullen brow
Sit'st behind those virgins gay,
Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough,
Leafless mid the blooms of May;

Inly gnawing, thy distresses

Mock those starts of wanton glee,

And thy inmost soul confesses

Chaste affliction's majesty.

Loathing thy polluted lot,

Hie thee, Sufferer, hie thee hence;

Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,

With a wiser innocence !

Mute the Lavrac and forlorn,

While she moults those firstling plumes. That had skimm'd the tender Corn,

Or the Bean-field's odorous blooms:

Soon with renovated wing

Shall she dare a loftier flight, Upwards to the Day-star sing, And embathe in heavenly light.