distrust it not what blame can mercy find,
which gives at once a life, and rears a mind?
Mother, miscall'd, farewell-of soul severe,
this sad reflection yet may force one tear:
all I was wretched by, to you I ow'd,
alone from strangers, every comfort flow'd!
Lost to the life you gave, your son no more,
and now adopted, who was doom'd before,
new-born, I may a nobler mother claim,
but dare not whisper her immortal name;
supremely lovely, and serenely great!
majestic mother of a kneeling state!
queen of a people's heart, who ne'er before!
agreed-yet now with one consent adore!
one contest yet remains in this desire,
who most shall give applause, where all admire!

VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY.

Polly, from me, tho' now a love-sick youth, nay, tho' a poet, hear the voice of truth! Polly, you 're not a beauty, yet your're pretty; so grave, yet gay; so silly, yet so witty; a heart of softness, yet a tongue of satire; you've cruelty, yet, ev'n with that, good nature: now you are free, and now reserv'd awhile; now a forc'd frown betrays a willing smile. Reproach'd for absence, yet your sight deny'd; my tongue your silence, yet my silence chide. How would you chide me, should your sex defame! yet should they praise, grow jealous, and exclaim. If I despair, with some kind look you bless; but if I hope, at once all hope suppress.

You scorn; yet should my passion change, or fail, No. 80.

5

too late you'd whimper out a softer tale.

You love; yet from your lover's wish retire; doubt, yet discern; deny, and yet desire.

Such, Polly, are your sex-part truth, part fiction, some thought, much whim, and all a contradiction.

THE GENTLEMAN.

ADDRESSED TO JOHN JOLIFFE, ESQ.

A decent mein, an elegance of dress, words, which at ease, each winning grace express; a life, where love, by wisdom polish'd, shines, where wisdom's self again, by love, refines; where we to chance for friendship never trust, nor ever dread from sudden whim disgust; to social manners, and the heart humane; a nature ever great, and never vain; a wit, that no licentious pertness knows; the sense, that unassuming candour shows; reason, by narrow principles uncheck'd, slave to no party, bigot to no sect; knowledge of various life, and learning too;

thence taste; thence truth, which will from taste en

unwilling censure, tho' a judgment clear; a smile indulgent, and that smile sincere; a humble, tho' an elevated mind;

[sue :

a pride, it's pleasure but to serve mankind :
if these esteem and admiration raise;
give true delight, and gain unflattering praise,
in one wish'd view, th' accomplish'd man we see;
these graces all are thine, and thou art he.

THE POET'S DEPENDENCE

ON A STATESMAN.

Some seem to hint, and others proof will bring, that, from neglect, my numerous hardships spring. Seek the great man! they cry, 't is then decreed, in him, if I court fortune, I succeed:

What friends to second? who for me should sue, have interests, partial to themselves, in view. They own my matchless face compassion draws; they all wish well, lament, but drop my cause. There are who ask no pension, want no place, no title wish, and would accept no grace. Can I entreat, they should for me obtain the least, who greatest for themselves disdain; a statesman, knowing this, unkind, will cry, those love him: let those serve him; why should I? Say, shall I turn where lucre points my views; at first desert my friends, at length abuse? But, on less terms, in promise he complies; years bury years, and hopes on hopes arise; I trust, am trusted don my fairy gain; and woes on woes attend, an endless train. Be posts dispos'd at will! I have for these, no gold to plead, no impudence to teaze. All secret service from my soul I hate; all dark intrigues of pleasure, or of state. I have no power, election-votes to gain; no will to hackney out polemic strain;

to shape, as time shall serve, my verse, or prose,
to flatter thence, nor slur, a courtier's foes;
nor him to daub
b with praise, if I prevail;
nor shock'd by him with libels to assail.

Where these are not, what claim to me belongs?
tho' mine the muse and virtue, birth and wrongs.
Where lives the statesman, so in honour clear,
to give where he has nought to hope, nor fear?
No! there to seek, is but to find fresh pain:
the promise broke, renew'd, and broke again;
to be, as humour deigns, receiv'd, refus'd;
by turns affronted, and by turns amus'd;

to lose that time, which worthier thoughts require;
to lose the health which should those thoughts inspire;
to starve and hope; or, like camelions, fare
on ministerial faith which means but air.

But still, undrooping, I the crew disdain, who, or by jobs, or libels, wealth obtain.

Ne'er let me be, through those, from want exempt; in one man's favour, in the world's contempt: worse in my own; through those, to post who rise, themselves, in secret, must themselves despise; vile, and more vile, till they, at length, disclaim not sense alone of glory, but of shame.

What tho' I hourly see the servile herd, for meanness honour'd, and for guilt preferr'd; see selfish passion, public virtue seem; and public virtue an enthusiast dream; see favour'd falsehood, innocence belied, meekness depress'd, and power-elated pride; a scene will show, all-righteous vision haste; the meek exalted, and the proud debas'd! oh! to be there! to tread that friendly shore, where falsehood, pride, and statesman are no more! But ere indulg'd, ere fate my breath shall claim, a poet still is anxious after fame.

What future fame would my ambition crave?
this were my wish, could ought my memory save,

say,

when in death my sorrows lie repos'd, that my past life no venal view disclos'd; say, I well knew, while in a state obscure, without the being base, the being poor; say, I had parts, too moderate to transcend: yet sense to mean, and virtue not t' offend; my heart supplying what my head denied, say that, by Pope esteem'd I liv'd and died; whose writings the best rules to write could give; whose life the nobler science how to live.

EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY.

Clos'd are those eyes that beam'd seraphic fire; cold is that breast which gave the world desire; mute is the voice where winning softness warm'd, where music melted, and where wisdom charm'd, and lively wit, which, decently confin'd, no prude e'er thought impure, no friend unkind. Could modest knowledge, fair untrifling youth, persuasive reason and endearing truth,

could honour, shown in friendships most confin'd, and sense, that shields th' attempted virtuous mind; the social temper never known to strife, the heightening graces that embellish life; could these have e'er the darts of death defied, never, ah! never had Melinda died;

nor can 'she die; ev'n now survives her name, immortaliz'd by friendship, love, and fame.