STANZAS ON WOMAN. WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor'd, Intended to have been sung by Miss Hardcastle in the Comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer." Α H me, when shall I marry me? Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me; He, fond youth, that could carry me, Offers to love, but means to deceive me. But I will rally and combat the ruiner: Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover ; She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. STANZAS On the taking of Quebec. AMIDST the clamor of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. O Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe, Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigor fled, And saw thee fall, with joy-pronouncing eyes: Yet they shall know thou conquerest, tho' dead: Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. EPITAPH On Dr. Parnell. THIS tomb inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name, What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay, Celestial themes confest his tuneful aid; And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. The transitory breath of fame below; More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, HER EPITAPH. On Edward Purdon.* ERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, He led such a damnable life in this world I don't think he'll wish to come back. GOOD AN ELEGY On the Glory of her Sex. Mrs. Mary Blaize. OOD people all with one accord, The needy seldom pass'd her door, This gentleman was educated at Trinity-College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers, He translated Voltaire's Henriade. She strove the neighbourhood to please, With manners wond'rous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways, Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new, Her love was sought, I do aver, But now her wealth and finery filed, The doctors found when she was dead,- Let us lament, in sorrow sore, That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more, A SONNET. WEEPING, murmuring, complaining, Lost to every gay delight, Myra, too sincere for feigning, Yet why impair thy bright perfection? FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY. SONG. THE wretch, condemn'd with life to part, Still, still on hope relies; And every pang, that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light, SONG. Memory! thou fond deceiver, To former joys, recurring ever, Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing, |