Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove
What diff’rent thoughts thy taste and beauty move?
This woven chain, which graceful skill displays,
Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh;
But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze,
Time unremember’d moves, or seems to die.
Upon a Diamond Cross,
WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M.
Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear
The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven;
For trust me, tho’ so very young and fair,
Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven:—
For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread,
For all the sighs which countless charms can move,
Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head;
Yet fall they gently—for the crime is love.
Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine munificently presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of Fifteen Thousand Pounds.
Oh, Fortune! I have seen thee shed
A plenteous show’r of treasure down
On many a weak and worthless head,
On those who but deserv’d thy frown.
And I have heard, in lonely shade,
Her sorrows hapless Merit pour;
And thou hast pass’d the drooping maid,
To give some pamper’d fav’rite more.
But tho’ so cold, or strangely wild,
It seems that worth can sometimes move;
Thou hast on gentle Emma smil’d,
And thou hast smil’d where all approve:—
For Nature form’d her gen’rous heart
With ev’ry virtue, pure, refin’d;
And wit and taste, and grace and art,
United to illume her mind.
So dew-drops fall on some rare flow’r,
That merits all their fost’ring care,
As tho’ they knew that, by their pow’r,
Grateful ’twould wider scent the air.
THE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS.
Alas! but like a summer’s dream
All the delight I felt appears,
While mis’ry’s weeping moments seem
A ling’ring age of tears.
Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute!
And pour thy soft consoling tone,
While I, a list’ning mourner mute,
Will call each tender grief my own.
WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA-SIDE
(In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm),
UPON SEEING AN IDIOTIC YOUTH SEATED IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER,
’Twas on a night of wildest storms,
When loudly roar’d the raving main,—
When dark clouds shew’d their shapeless forms,
And hail beat hard the cottage pane,—
Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side,
With open mouth and staring eyes;
A batter’d broom was all his pride,—
It was his wife, his child, his prize!