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But see him now for pardon sue!

See, how his eye of glossy blue
With mingled hope and grief he lifts to me.

Ah! lovely boy, thy fears dismiss,

Convinced by that forgiving kiss, That I can never part from Julia and from thee.

M. G. LEWIS.

TO MISS SARAH FOWLER. WHEN first Aurora's gorgeous car

Springs from night's dreary vault released, And beauty's consecrated star

Retires behind the blushing east,
Can Titan's orient beams dispense
A more propitious influence

To animate the exulting earth
Than sheds bright Fancy o'er the mind,
When, from Care's grosser dregs refined,

It gives the fruits of genius birth,
Not in the solitary gloom,

By the dim taper's sickly ray, Sunk in the rust of Greece and Rome

Does Genius point the doubtful way,
While in abstracted thought the sage
Revolves the stern Socratic page;

Or by the tedious rules of art
In melancholy search pursues,
Yet finds the gay the bashful Muse

Unseen and unattain's depart.
Where Poesy erects her seat,

The myrtle's fragrant branches twine. Beneath the Pleasures' nimble feet

Upstarts the new born columbine. VOL. III.

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Methinks I see the jocund band
Of Loves and Graces hand in hand

Their artless symphony inspire;
The Muses catch the dulcet sound,-
They waft the sportive echoes round,

And wake the sympathetic lyre.

The rose's aromatic bloom

Adorns their wild fantastic grove, And o'er the violet's perfume

Angelic forms delighted rove; Fair Sappho in Elysian bowers Beguiles the gently stealing hours,

And soothes entranced Despair to rest; Her strains so feelingly express The force of elegant distress,

Implanted in a female breast.

Careless tripping o'er the green

The sprightly Deshoulieres appears With winning air and brow serene,

Unclouded by the frown of years ; Around the Nymph in graceful state A thousand smiling Cupids wait,

And each performs his destined part; Some give the cheeks a livelier glow, Some tune the lyre, some twang the bow,

To pierce the most obdurate heart.

The plaintive Rowe, whose warbling breath

Dispersed the melancholy gloom Which at her dear Alexis' death

O’erhung the sickening vales of Frome, To the soft Cyprian lute recites The fears, the hopes, the fond delights,

The tender blandishments of love, Their mutual happiness completing, Where Innocence and Pleasure meeting

Have fix'd them in the realms above. Beside them Cytherea stands

In Virtue's snowy garb array'd,
And reunites their social hands

Severed by Death's remorseless blade:
The Loves with elegiac verse
Meanwhile adorn the sable hearse

In which their mortal ashes lie,
And in due chaplet Phoebus weaves
The laurel's never fading leaves,

The pledge of immortality.
Yet not from these romantic shades,

Whene'er I wake the Teian string,
Will I invoke the harmonious Maids

To' unlock Castalia's vaunted spring : The palms of Genius thinly spread Where cypress glooms o'erarch the dead

Let others glean :-My raptured ear Has caught the soul-enchanting strains That on Salopia's happy plains

The bright Sabrina joys to hear : She, blameless Nymph, whose piteous doom

Poetic annalists relate, Immersed in Severn's watery tomb

By Guendoline's remorseless hate, O'er the smooth current still presides, And bids the spring flowers on its sides

Diversify the broider'd green, Where to the spheres' aerial sound The light Fays trip their antic round,

By meditating shepherds seen.

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If worn Tradition's specious tales,

In Fiction's gaudy mantle dress’d, Were wont to celebrate her vales

With Nature's bounteous treasures bless'd; Fame hiding more than half her blaze Reserved to crown these later days

Her greatest her most envied pride, That while her banks thy numbers grace, The Goddess sees thy fairer face

Reflected in her glassy tide, Ask we on what terrestrial plain

The Graces condescend to dwell,
When thou, the loveliest of their train,

So aptly strikest the chorded shell?
Whether from Bacchus' mighty race,
Or the dread Thunderer's stolen embrace,

Euphrosyne derived her birth,
Regards not us :-Our dazzled sight,
Struck with ineffable delight,
Has found her parallel on earth.

WODHULL.

ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY.

1747.
COME then, tell me, sage divine,
Is it an offence to own
That our bosoms e'er incline
Toward immortal Glory's throne ?
For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
So can Fancy's dream rejoice,

So conciliate Reason's choice,
As one approving word of her impartial voice.

If to spurn at noble praise
Be the passport to thy heaven,
Follow thou those gloomy ways,
No such law to me was given ;
Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me
Faring like my friends before me;
Nor a holier place desire

Than Timoleon's arms acquire,
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.

AKENSIDE.

THE MAN OF TASTE.

HENCE! phantom! weak and vain,
Fashion ! of Indolence and Folly born!

Nursed by Conceit and Scorn!
And cradled in the wild distemper'd brain !

Go! Hoyden, as thou art
A full grown baby! skittish! prone to range!

Changed, evermore to change!
Find out some high tower's pinnacle! and watch

The shifting vane to catch,
That veers with every blast to every part !
But come! thou sober Influence,
Whom Genius bore of old to Sense!
Taste, thy name !— Beneath a shade,
By arched oaks embowering made,
Sense his stand, deep musing, took ;
With fixed foot, and steadfast look,
Nature's handiwork surveying ;-
Where fruit and flower the meads arraying,
Lavish of hues that ght outvie
The many-tinged rainbow's dye,

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