To Mr. OPIE,

On his having painted for me the picture of MRS. Twise.

Hail to thy pencil! well its glowing art
Has traced those features painted on my heart:
Now, tho' in distant scenes she soon will rove
Still shall I here behold the friend I love ;
Still see that smile "endearings artless,, kind,"
The eye's mild beam that speaks the candid mind,
Which, sportive oft, yet fearful to offend,
By humour charms, but never wounds a friend.
But in my breast, contending feelings rise,
While this loy'd semblance fascinates my eyes;
Now pleas'd, I mark the painter's skilful line,
Now joy, because the skill I mark was thine:
And while I prize the gift by thee bestow'd,.
My heart proclaims I'm of the giver proud.
Thus pride and friendship war with equal strife,
And now the FRIEND exults, and now the WIFE.
AMELIA OPIE, 1799.

The OAK of our FATHERS.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

It grew and it flourish'd' for many an age,

And many a tempest wreak'd on it its rage,

But when its strong branches were bent with the blast, It struck its roots deeper and flourish'd more fast.

Its head tower'd high, and its branches spread round, For its roots were struck deep, and its heart it was sound; The bees o'er its honey-dew'd foliage play'd,

And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade.

The Oak of our Fathers to Freedom was dear,

Its leaves were her crown, and its wood was her spear. Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood

In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

There crept up an ivy and clung round the trunk,
It struck in its mouths and its juices it drunk ;
The branches grew sickly deprived of their food,
And the Oak was no longer the pride of the wood

The foresters saw and they gather'd around,

Its roots still were fast, and its heart still was sound;
They lopt off the boughs that so beautiful spread,
But the ivy they spared on its vitals that fed.

No longer the bees o'er its honey-dews play'd,
Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its fhade;
Lopt and mangled the trunk in its ruin is seen,
A monument now what its beauty has been.

The Oak has received its incurable wound

They have loosened the roots, tho' the heart may be sound; What the travellers at distance green-flourishing see,

Are the leaves of the ivy that ruined the tree.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood

In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

R. S.

TO A FRIEND,

Enquiring if I would live over my youth again.

Do I regret the past?
Would I again live o'er
The morning hours of life?

Nay William nay, not so!

In the warm joyaunce of the summer sun
I do not wish again

The changeful April day.
Nay William nay, not so!
Safe haven'd from the sea
I would not tempt again

The uncertain ocean's wrath.

Praise be to him who made me what I am,

Other I would not be.

Why is it pleasant then to sit and talk
Of days that are no more?

When in his own dear home

The traveller rests at last,

And tells how often in his wanderings

The thought of those far off
Has made his eyes o'erflow

With no unmanly tears;
Delighted he recalls

Thro' what fair scenes his charmed feet have trod.
But ever when he tells of perils past,

And troubles now no more,

His eyes most sparkle, and a readier joy
Flows rapid to his heart.

No William no, I would not live again
The morning hours of life,

I would not be again

The slave of hope and fear,

I would not learn again

The wisdom by Experience hardly taught.

To me the past presents

No object for regret ;

To me the present gives

All cause for full content ;