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The sultan comes, still gloomy, still enraged.





Where's this fair trait'ress? Where's this smiling mischief?

Whom neither vows could fix, nor favours bind?


Thine orders, mighty sultan! are perform'd, And all Irene now is breathless clay.


Your hasty zeal defrauds the claim of justice,
And disappointed vengeance burns in vain.
I came to heighten tortures by reproach,
And add new terrours to the face of death.
Was this the maid whose love I bought with em-
pire ?

True, she was fair; the smile of innocence
Play'd on her cheek-So shone the first apos-
Irene's chamber! Did not roaring Cali, [tate-
Just as the rack forc'd out his struggling soul,
Name for the scene of death Irene's chamber?


His breath prolong'd but to detect her treason, Then in short sighs forsook his broken frame.


Decreed to perish in Irene's chamber ! There had she lull'd me with endearing falsehoods,

Clasp'd in her arms, or slumb'ring on her breast, And bar'd my bosom to the ruffian's dagger.


HASAN, CARAZA, MAHOMEt, mustapha, murza, ABDALLA.


Forgive, great sultan! that, by fate prevented, I bring a tardy message, from Irene.


Some artful wile of counterfeited love!
Some soft decoy to lure me to destruction!
And thou, the curs'd accomplice of her treason
Declare thy message, and expect thy doom.


The queen requested that a chosen troop Might intercept the traitor Greek, Demetrius, Then ling'ring with his captive mistress here.


The Greek Demetrius! whom th' expiring bassa Declar'd the chief associate of his guilt!


A chosen troop-to intercept-DemetriusThe queen requested-Wretch, repeat the message;

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[ties, Heard her last cries, and fann'd her dying beau. Shall hide me from the tasteless world for ever. [Mahomet goes back and returns. Yet, ere I quit the sceptre of dominion, Let one just act conclude the hateful day. Hew down, ye guards, those vassals of distraction, [Painting to Hasan and Caraza. Those hounds of blood, that catch the hint to kill;

Bear off with eager haste th' unfinish'd sentence, And speed the stroke, lest mercy should o'ertake them.


Then hear, great Mahomet, the voice of truth.

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Hadst thou heard a moment,



MARRY a Turk! a haughty tyrant king!
Who thinks us women born to dress and sing
To please his fancy! see no other man!
Let him persuade me to it—if he can:
Besides, he has fifty wives, and who can bear

Thou might'st have liv'd, for thou had'st spar'd To have the fiftieth part her paltry share?



I heard her, pitied her, and wish'd to save her.


And wish'd-be still thy fate to wish in vain.


I heard, and soften'd, till Abdalla brought Her final doom, and hurried her destruction.


Abdalla brought her doom! Abdalla brought it,
The wretch, whose guilt, declar'd by tortur'd
My rage and grief had hid from my remem-
Abdalla brought her doom!


Abdalla brought it,

While yet she begg'd to plead her cause before thee.

'Tis true the fellow's handsome, straight, and tall,

But how the devil should he please us all!
My swain is little-true-but, be it known,
My pride's to have that little all my own.
Men will be ever to their errours blind,
Where woman's not allow'd to speak her mind.
I swear this eastern pageantry is nonsense,
And for one man-one wife's enough of con-

In vain proud man usurps what's woman's due, For us alone, they honour's paths pursue : Inspir'd by us, they glory's heights ascend; Woman the source, the object, and the end. Though wealth, and pow'r, and glory, they receive,

These are all trifles to what we can give.
For us the statesman labours, hero fights,
Bears toilsome days, and wakes long tedious

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O seize me, madness-Did she call on me!
I feel, I see the ruffian's barb'rous rage.
He seiz'd her melting in the fond appeal,
And stopp'd the heav'nly voice that call'd on me.
My spirits fail, awhile support me, vengeance-
Be just, ye slaves; and, to be just, be cruel;
Contrive new racks, imbitter ev'ry pang,
Inflict whatever treason can deserve,
Which murder'd innocence that call'd on me.

[Exit Mahomet; Abdalla is dragged off.



What plagues, what tortures, are in store for thee,
Thou sluggish idler, dilatory slave!
Behold the model of consummate beauty,
Torn from the mourning Earth by thy neglect.


Such was the will of Heav'n-A band of Greeks That mark'd my course, suspicious of my purpose,

[arm'd, Rush'd out and seiz'd me, thoughtless and unBreathless, amaz'd, and on the guarded beach Detain'd me, till Demetrius set me free.


So sure the fall of greatness, rais'd on crimes! So fix'd the justice of all-conscious Heav'n!

When haughty guilt exults with impious joy, Mistake shall blast, or accident destroy; Weak man with erring rage may throw the dart,

But Heav'n shall guide it to the guilty heart.

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Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times,
Immortal patrons of succeeding days,
Attend this prelude of perpetual praise;
Let wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage
With close malevolence, or public rage,
Let study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore,
Behold this theatre, and grieve no more. [tell
This night, distinguish'd by your smiles, shall
That never Britain can in vain excel;
The slighted arts futurity shall trust,
And rising ages hasten to be just.

At length our mighty bard's victorious lays
Fill the loud voice of universal praise;
And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,
Yields to renown the centuries to come;
With ardent haste each candidate of fame,
Ambitious, catches at his tow'ring name;
He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow,
Those pageant honours which he scorn'd below,
While crowds aloft the laureat bust behold,
Or trace his form on circulating gold

Unknown, unheeded, long his offspring lay,
And want hung threat'ning o'er her slow decay.
What though she shine with no Miltonian fire,
No fav'ring Muse her morning dreams inspire;
Yet softer claims the melting heart engage,
Her youth laborious, and her blameless age;
Hers the mild merits of domestic life,
The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife.
Thus, grac'd with humble virtue's native charms,
Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia's arms;
Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell,
While tutelary nations guard her cell.
Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wise, ye brave!
'Tis yours to crown desert-beyond the grave.



PREST by the load of life, the weary mind
Surveys the gen'ral toil of human kind,
With cool submission joins the lab'ring train,
And social sorrow loses half its pain:
Our anxious bard without complaint may share
This bustling season's epidemic care;
Like Cæsar's pilot dignified by fate,
Tost in one common storm with all the great;
Distrest alike the statesman and the wit,
When one a borough courts, and one the pit.
The busy candidates for power and fame
Have hopes, and fear, and wishes, just the same;
Disabled both to combat or to fly,

Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply.
Uncheck'd on both loud rabbles vent their rage,
As mongrels bay the lion in a cage.

Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale,
For that blest year when all that vote may rail;
Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss,
Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss.
"This day the powder'd curls and golden

Says swelling Crispin, "begg'd a cobbler's vote.'
"This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries,
"Lies at my feet; I hiss him, and he dies."
The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing

The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe;
Yet, judg'd by those whose voices ne'er were sold,
He feels no want of ill-persuading gold;
But, confident of praise, if praise be due,
Trusts without fear to merit and to you.




THIS night presents a play which public rage,
Or right, or wrong, once booted from the stage®.

1 Performed at CoventGarden theatre in 1777, for the benefit of Mrs. Kelly, widow of Hugh Kelly, esq. (the author of the play) and her children.

Upon the first representation of this play, 1770, a party assembled to damn it, and succeeded.

From zeal or malice, now no more we dread,
For English vengeance wars not with the dead.
A generous foe regards with pitying eye
The man whom fate has laid where all must lie.
To wit reviving from its author's dust
Be kind, ye judges, or at least be just.
For uo renew'd hostilities invade
Th' oblivious grave's inviolable shade.
Let one great payment every claim appease,
And him, who cannot hurt, allow to please;
To please by scenes unconscious of offence,
By harmless merriment, or useful sense.
Where aught of bright or fair the piece displays,
Approve it only-'tis too late to praise.
If want of skill or want of care appear,
Forbear to hiss-the poet cannot hear.

By all like him must praise and blame be found,
At best a fleeting gleam, or empty sound.
Yet then shall calm reflection bless the night,
When liberal pity dignify'd delight;
When pleasure fir'd her torch at virtue's flame,
And mirth was bounty with an humbler name.



STERN Winter now by Spring repress'd,
Forbears the long-continued strife;
And Nature on her naked breast

Delights to catch the gales of life.
Now o'er the rural kingdom roves
Soft pleasure with the laughing train,
Love warbles in the vocal groves,

And vegetation plants the plain,
Unhappy! whom to beds of pain,
Arthr.tic' tyranny consigus;
Whom smiling Nature courts in vain,
Though rapture sings and beauty shines.
Yet though my limbs disease invades,

Her wings Imagination tries,
And bears me to the peaceful shades,

Where's humble turrets rise.
Here stop, my soul, thy rapid flight

Nor from the pleasing groves depart,
Where first great Nature charm'd my sight,

Where Wisdom first inform'd my heart.
Here let me through the vales pursue

A guide-a father-and a friend,
Once more great Nature's works renew,
Once more on Wisdom's voice attend.
From false caresses, causeless strife,

Wild hope, vain fear, alike remov'd;
Here let me learn the use of life,

When best enjoy'd-when most improv'd.
Teach me, thou venerable bower,

Cool meditation's quiet seat,
The gen'rous scorn of venal power,
The silent grandeur of retreat.
When pride by guilt to greatness climbs,
Or raging factions rush to war,
Here let me learn to shun the crimes
I can't prevent, and will not share.
But lest I fall by subtler foes,

Bright Wisdom, teach me Curio's art,
The swelling passions to compose,
And quell the rebels of the heart.

1 The author being ill of the gout.

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O PHOEBUS! down the western sky, Far hence diffuse thy burning ray, Thy light to distant worlds supply,

And wake them to the cares of day. Come, gentle Eve, the friend of care, Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night! Refresh me with a cooling air,

And cheer me with a lambent light. Lay me, where o'er the verdant ground Her living carpet Nature spreads; Where the green bower, with roses crown'd, In showers its fragrant foliage sheds; Improve the peaceful hour with wine,

Let music die along the grove; Around the bowl let myrtles twine,

And ev'ry strain be tun'd to love. Come, Stella, queen of all my heart! Come, born to fill its vast desires! Thy looks perpetual joys impart,

Thy voice perpetual love inspires. Whilst all my wish and thine complete, By turns we languish and we burn, Let sighing gales our sighs repeat,

Our murmurs-murmuring brooks return. Let me when Nature calls to rest,

And blushing skies the morn foretel,
Sink on the down of Stella's breast,
And bid the waking world farewell.



ALAS! with swift and silent pace,
Impatient time rolls on the year;
The seasons change, and Nature's face

Now sweetly smiles, now frowns severe.
'Twas Spring, 'twas Summer, all was gay,
Now Autumn bends a cloudy brow;
The flowers of Spring are swept away,

And Summer-fruits desert the bough.
The verdant leaves that play'd on high,
And wanton'd on the western breeze,
Now trod in dust neglected lie,

As Boreas strips the bending trees. The fields that wav'd with golden grain,

As russet heaths, are wild and bare;
Not moist with dew, but drench'd with rain,
Nor Health, nor pleasure, wanders there.
No more while through the midnight shade,
Beneath the Moon's pale orb I stray,
Soft pleasing woes my heart invade,
As Progne pours the melting lay.
From this capricious clime she soars,

Oh! would some god but wings supply!
To where each morn the Spring restores,
Companion of her flight I'd fly.
Vain wish! me fate compels to bear
The downward season's iron reign,
Compels to breathe polluted air,
And shiver on a blasted plain.
What bliss to life can Autumn yield,

If glooms, and showers, and storms prevail; Aud Ceres flies the naked field,

And flowers, and fruits, and Phœbus fail?

Oh! what remains, what lingers yet,
To cheer me in the darkening hour!
The grape remains! the friend of wit,

In love, and mirth, of mighty power.
Haste-press the clusters, fill the bowl;
Apollo! shoot thy parting ray:
This gives the sunshine of the soul,

This god of health, and verse, and day. Still still the jocund strain shall flow,

The pulse with vigorous rapture beat; My Stella with new charms shall glow, And ev'ry bliss in wine shall meet.



No more the inorn, with tepid rays,
Unfolds the flower of various hue;
Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,
Nor gentle eve distils the dew.
The ling'ring hours prolongs the night,
Usurping darkness shares the day;
Her mists restrain the force of light,
And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway.
By gloomy twilight half reveal'd,

With sighs we view the hoary hill,
The leafless wood, the naked field,
The snow-topt cot, the frozen rill.
No music warbles through the grove,
No vivid colours paint the plain;
No more with devious steps I rove

Through verdant paths now sought in vain. Aloud the driving tempest roars,

Congeal'd, impetuous showers descend;
Haste, close the window, bar the doors,
Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.
In nature's aid let art supply

With light and heat my little sphere;
Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high,
Light up a constellation here.
Let music sound the voice of joy,

Or mirth repeat the jocund tale;
Let Love his wanton wiles employ,

And o'er the season wine prevail. Yet time life's dreary winter brings,

When mirth's gay tale shall please no more; No music charm-though Stella sings ; Nor love, nor wine, the spring restore. Catch, then, Oh! catch the transient hour, Improve each moment as it flies; Life's a short summer-man a flower: He dies-alas! how soon he dies!

THE WINTER'S WALK. BEHOLD, my fair, where'er we rove, What dreary prospects round us rise; The naked hill, the leafless grove,

The hoary ground, the frowning skies! Nor only through the wasted plain,

Stern Winter! is thy force confess'd; Still wider spreads thy horrid reign, I feel thy power usurp my breast. Enlivening hope, and fond desire,

Resign the heart to spleen and care; Scarce frighted love maintains her fire, And rapture saddens to despair.

In groundless hope, and causeless fear, Unhappy man! behold thy doom; Still changing with the changeful year, The slave of sunshine and of gloom. Tir'd with vain joys, and false alarms,

With mental and corporeal strife, Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms, And screen me from the ills of life.

How passion's well-accorded strife
Gives all the harmony of life;
Thy pictures shall thy conduct frame,
Consistent still, though not the same;
Thy music teach the nobler art,
To tune the regulated heart.

TO MISS *****

THOUGH gold and silk their charms unite
To make thy curious web delight,
In vain the varied work would shine;
If wrought by any hand but thine;
Thy hand, that knows the subtle art

To weave those nets that catch the heart.
Spread out by me, the roving coin
Thy nets may catch, but not confine;
Nor can I hope thy silken chain
The glitt'ring vagrants shall restrain.
Why, Stella, was it then decreed

The heart once caught should ne'er be freed?

TO MISS *****



WHEN Stella strikes the tuneful string

In scenes of imitated spring,
Where beauty lavishes her powers
On beds of never-fading flowers,
And pleasure propagates around
Each charm of modulated sound;
Ah! think not, in the dangerous hour,
The nymph fictitious as the flower;
But shun, rash youth, the gay alcove,
Nor tempt the snares of wily love.

When charms thus press on ev'ry sense,
What thought of flight, or of defence?
Deceitful hope, and vain desire,
For ever flutter o'er her lyre,
Delighting as the youth draws nigh,
To point the glances of her eye,
And forming with unerring art
New chains to hold the captive heart.
But on those regions of delight
Might truth intrude with daring flight,
Could Stella, sprightly, fair, and young,
One moment hear the moral song,
Instruction with her flowers might spring,
And wisdom warble from her string.

Mark, when from thousand mingled dyes
Thou seest one pleasing form arise,
How active light, and thoughtful shade,
In greater scenes each other aid;

Mark, when the different notes agree
In friendly contrariety,

1 Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscella





EVENING now from purple wings Sheds the grateful gifts she brings; Brilliant drops bedeck the mead, Cooling breezes shake the reed; Shake the reed, and curl the stream Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam; Near the chequer'd, lonely grove, Hears, and keeps thy secrets, Love. Stella, thither let us stray, Lightly o'er the dewy way. Phoebus drives his burning car, Hence, my lovely, Stella, far; In his stead, the queen of night Round us pours a lambent light: Light that seems but just to show Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow. Let us now, in whisper'd joy, Evening's silent hours employ, Silence best, and conscious shades Please the hearts that love invades, Other pleasures give them pain, Lovers all but love disdain.


WHETHER Stella's eyes are found Fix'd on earth, or glancing round, If her face with pleasure glow, If she sigh at other's woe, If her easy air express Conscious worth, or soft distress, Stella's eyes, and air, and face, Charm with undiminish'd grace. If on her we see display'd Pendant gems, and rich brocade, If her chintz with less expense Flows in easy negligence; Still she lights the conscious flame, Still her charms appear the same; If she strikes the vocal strings, If she's silent, speaks, or sings, If she sit, or if she move, Still we love and still approve.

Vain the casual, transient glance, Which alone can please by chance, Beauty, which depends on art, Changing with the changing heart, Which demands the toilet's aid, Pendent gems and rich brocade. I those charms alone can prize Which from constant nature rise, Which nor circumstance, nor dress,

2 Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscella- E'er can make, or more, or less.


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