O let th' afpiring warrior think, with grief, That as produc'd by chymic art refin'd, So glitt'ring conquest, from the laurel-leaf, Extracts a gen❜ral poison for mankind. Here let him wander at the midnight hour, These morbid rains, these gelid gales to meet; And mourn, like me, the ravages of pow'r! And feel, like me, that vict'ry is defeat! Nor deem, ye vain! that e'er I mean to fwell My feeble verfe with many a founding name; Of fuch the mercenary bard may tell,
And call fuch dreary defolation, fame.
The genuine mufe removes the thin difguife
That cheats the world, whene'er fhe deigns to fing; And full as meritorious to her eyes
Seems the poor foldier as the mighty king!
Alike I fhun in labour'd ftrain to show,
How Britain more than triumph'd, though fhe fled, Where Louis flood, where ftalk'd the column flow; I turn from these, and dwell upon the dead. Yet much my beating breast respects the brave, Too well I love them not to mourn their fate; Why fhould they feek for greatnefs in the grave? Their hearts are noble, and in life they're great. Nor think 'tis but in war the brave excel- To valour ev'ry virtue is ally'd!
Here faithful friendship 'mid the battle fell, And love, true love, in bitter anguish dy'd.
Alas! the folemn slaughter I retrace,
That checks life's current, circling through my veins, Bath'd in moist forrow many a beauteous face,
And gave a grief, perhaps, that ftill remains.
I can no more-an agony too keen
Abforbs my fenfes, and my mind fubdues: Hard were that heart which here could beat ferene, Or the juft tribute of a pang refuse.
But, lo! through yonder op'ning clouds afar Shoots the bright planet's fanguinary ray, That bears thy name, fictitious lord of war! And with red luftre guides my lonely way.
Then, Fontenoy, farewell! yet much I fear, (Wherever chance my courfe compels,) to find Difcord and blood-the thrilling founds I hear, "The noife of battle hurtles in the wind."
From barb'rous Turkey to Britannia's fhore, Opposing int'refts into rage increase, Deftruction rears her fceptre, tumults roar; Ah! where fhall hapless man repofe in peace?
we are marry'd-and now let me fay, Tho' both are in youth, yet that youth will decay; In our journey through life, my dear Joan, I fuppofe, We shall oft meet a Bramble, and sometimes a Rofe!
When a cloud on this forehead fhall darken my day, Thy funfhine of fweetnefs muft fmile it away; And when the dull vapour fhall dwell upon thine, To chase it the labour and triumph be mine.
Thou shalt milk our one cow, and, if Fortune purfuc, In good time, with her bleffing, my Joan fhall milk two. I will till our small field, while my prattle and fong Shall charm, as I drive the bright ploughfhare along. When finish'd the day, by the fire we'll regale, And treat our good neighbour at eve with our ale For, Joan, who could wish for felf only to live, One bleffing of life, my dear girl, is—to give.
E'en the Red-breast and Wren fhall not feek us in vain, While thou haft a crumb, or thy Corin a grain; Not only their fongs will they pour from the grove, But yield by example fweet feffons of love.
Tho' thy beauty muft fade, yet thy youth I'll remember, That thy May was my own, when thou fhoweft December; And when age to my head fhall his winter impart, The fummer of love fhall repofe in my heart!
Share my cottage, dearest maid! Beneath a mountain wide and high, It neftles in a filent glade,
And Wye's clear currents wander by. Each tender care, each honest art,
Shall chafe all future want from thee; When thy fweet lips confent impart, To climb thefe fteepy hills with me.
Far from the city's vain parade,
No fcornful brow fhall there be feen; No dull impertinence invade,
Nor envy bafe, nor fullen fpleen. The fhadowy rocks, that circle round, From ftorms fhall guard our fylvan cell;
And there fhall ev'ry joy be found,
That loves in peaceful vales to dwell.
When late the tardy fun fhall peer, And faintly gild yon little fpire; When nights are long, and frofts fevere, And our clean hearth is bright with fire; Sweet tales to read, fweet fongs to fing! O! they fhall drown the wind and rain, E'en till the foften'd feafon bring The merry spring-time back again!
Then hawthorns, flow'ring in the glen, Shall guard the warbling plumy throng; Nor boaft the bufy haunts of men So fair a scene, fo fweet a fong. Thy arms the new-yean'd lamb will shield, And to the funny fhelter bear;
While, o'er the rough and breathing field, My hands impel the gleaming fhare.
Ne'er doubt our wheaten ears will rife,..
And full their prove, with
yellow harvest glow; me, the fprightly joys, Industry bestow.
Their jocund pow'rs can banish ftrife, M Her clouds no paffing day will fee; Since all the leifure hours of life Shall ftill be spent in pleasing thee.
THOU dazzling ball! vaft universe of flame! Idol fublime! Error's most glorious god! Whofe peerless fplendours plead in the excufe Of him that worthips thee, and fhine away The fin of pagan knees! whofe awful orb, Though Truth informs my more enlighten'd creed, Almoft entices my o'er-ravish'd heart
To turn idolator, and tempts my
To kifs my hand before thee: Nature's pride! Of matter most magnificent display!
Bright mafter-piece of dread Omnipotence! Ocean of fplendour! wondrous world of light! Thy sweet return my kindled lays falutę.
Hail, amiable vifion! ev'ry eye
Looks up and loves thee: ev'ry tongue proclaims, 'Tis pleasant to behold thee; rofy Health
And laughing Joy, thy beauteous daughters, play Before thy face for ever, and rejoice
In thine indulgent ray. Nature mourns Thine annual departure; in defpair, Like one forfaken by her love, fhe fits, And tears from off her all her gay attire, And drowns her face in tears, and languid lies, As if of life devoid; but lo, fhe lives! She lives again! her glorious rover comes, To wake her from her lethargy of woe, And warm her into beauty with a smile.
Fountain of infpiration! fir'd by thee, Imagination's facred tumults rife,
“And when he'd eaten the last stump, "They broil'd his ftomach and his rump, "And ferv'd them up for dinner.
"And when he'd eat himself all up, "And naught remain'd to bite or fup, "The devil took his foul away. "Great was the triumph of the town! "In this Court-hall, the truth's well known, "The cage hangs up unto this day.
"This cage, fir, often brings to mind "Those dealers in the human kind." (Thus my driver's story ended,) "Were they shut in't and taught to feel "Mis'ries they on the world entail, "Their manners might be mended."
Scarce had the lad his hift'ry done, When up comes Monfieur San Facon, And flops our carriage, bids us rise, Tumbles all our luggage over; Lur'd with hopes that he'd discover Something that had not paid th' excise.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF A WIFE.
OME, penfive Melancholy! thou who fhunn' The bufy haunts of men; 'tis thee I woo. Come, calm the tumults of a mind disturb'd: Thee will I cherish as a welcome guest, And freely, in fome lone retreat, indulge The gloom of grief, unnotic'd and unknown. Complaints were vain, fince none can yield relief; Yet tears may tell the fuff'rings I endure,
And eafe that weight of woe which wounds fo deep No time can heal. Oh! I've for ever loft
My firft, my early, and my only love.
Dear fource of comfort! thou art now no more; Thou waft the foft'ner of my ev'ry care, My friend, my fweet companion, and my all. What can to me existence now endear,
Since cheerfulness and health with thee are fled,
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