Upon Anacreon MOORE’S saying
that he disliked
singing to men.
By Beauty’s caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil’d,
Thus Music’s and Poesy’s favourite child
Exclaim’d,—“’Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing
Before a he-party to sit and to sing!”
“By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right,”
Said a son of green Erin; “tho’ dear to my sight
Are all the sweet cratures, call’d women, I swear,
Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair:
Tho’ you’d bribe us with songs, blood and ’ounds! let me say,
I’d not be a woman for one in your way.”
LINES TO JULIA.
Tho’, Julia, we are doom’d to part,
Tho’ unknown pangs invade this heart,
For thee the light of love shall burn,
To thee my soul in secret turn:
Upon this bosom, swell’d with care,
The thought of thee shall tremble there
’Till Time shall close these weeping eyes,
And close the soothing source of sighs.
So, in the silence of the night,
Shines on the wave the lunar light;
With its soft image, bright, imprest,
It heaves, and seems to know no rest:
Its agitation soon is o’er;
It sighs, and dies along the shore!
To the Memory of Mrs. A.H. Holdsworth,
LATE OF MOUNT GALPIN, DEVONSHIRE.
Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here,
Behold thy beauteous victim!—Ah! tis thine
To rend fond hearts, and start the tend’rest tear
Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine.
Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint,
Blest shade! how purely pass’d thy life away,
Or, with the meekness of a favour’d saint,
How rose thy spirit to the realms of day.
’Twas thine to fill each part that gladdens
Such as approving angels smile upon;—
The faultless daughter, parent, friend, and wife,—
Virtues short-lived! they set just as they shone.
Thus, in the bosom of some winding grove,
Where oft the pensive melodist retires,
From his sweet instrument, the note of love,
Charms the rapt ear, but, as it charms, expires.
Farewell, pure spirit! o’er thine early grave
Oblivion ne’er shall spread her freezing shade;
Nature shall bid her richest foliage wave
Where her reposing fav’rite child is laid.
There widow’d fondness oft, when summers bloom.
Shall with thy infant pledge of love repair;
Oft shall they kneel beside thy mossy tomb,
And tears shall dew the flow’rs that blossom there.
Written upon a Watch-String,
MADE AND PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ——.