They are witnesses for thee,

To the hearts by thee caress'd

Sacred is the filial plea;

They are heard; and thou art bless'd.

TO MRS. ******

Who blamed my Verses for being too short in the Measure.

IF Laura's

charms could smile upon the Muse,

Its proudest current should her fame diffuse;

Could her example to the verse be lent,
Of grace and beauty, in their bright extent †,
An ample volume then should fill the song,
The melody sustain, the note prolong;
Then should the Poet of his theme be vain,
Speed the wing'd horse, and throw aside the rein:
For she is all that wisdom can desire,

The heart can cherish, and the taste admire
In her the virtues, and with graceful strife,
Can emulate the Parent and the Wife:
Love in her friendship has renew'd his birth,
Springs from the heart, and smiles upon
its worth.
But could the Muse, a rival of its theme,
Flow with a deep, yet animated stream,
She'd blush to find that Nature could be Fame,
Abjure the picture, and the wreath disclaim,
Before her graces could be half admir'd
Would of the lengthen'd verse herself be tir❜d.

* Her poetical name in her teens.

† She is very tall.

TO A LADY OF POETICAL TALENTS,
WITH A GIFT OF PETRARCH.

THE Bard yet lives, though centuries have roll'd
Upon his hallow'd urn-he lives in verse,
Immortal; and the tale that he has told
Congenial spirits to their love rehearse.

In you his numbers, brilliant, smooth, and clear,
Flow with enchanting melody along:
But more varieties of thought appear,

And goodness of the heart improves the SONG.

TO MRS. MOODY,

On her Praise of my Verse, in Verse of her own.

FRIENDSHIP offer'd me her praise
Bright, though partial, were the lays.
"None but Sappho," I exclaim'd,
"Could for such a gift be nam'd:"

"Well," she answer'd, "you have guess'd, She alone the picture bless'd;

But, when you were on the shelf,
Took the likeness-from herself.
You have known her flattering smile,
And the charm that 's in her style
The seductions of her Muse,
And her Fancy's glowing hues :

These alone on you confer

Praise that none withheld from her."

IMPROMPTU,

After dining in Company with Lady SARAH NAPIER, at her Age of 65, and blind. I had not seen her for just Half a Century, and had left her a dazzling Beauty in her Teens.

In her dimpled smile are seen
Traces of the Cyprian Queen;
In her voice a note is heard
Sweet as Night's enchanting Bird.
Art from Nature took the file
Us'd in polishing her style;
Nor has Genius, Wit, and Sense,
Parted from her eloquence;
Wing'd as light is every note
Which her youthful pencil wrote,
Nor has Memory a page
For the dull records of Age;
All is there as brightly neat
As a dancing Grace's feet.

But a charm above the rest
Is the unsuspecting breast;
There, above Deffand* to rise,
Though resembled in their eyes;
There, and with perennial flowers,
Time has chain'd his feather'd hours.

* Madame Du Deffand, the celebrated bel esprit of Paris, was jealous and peevish. Lady Sarah knew her well, and so described her to me.

TO THE SUN.

after seeing Lady SARAH NAPIER blind.

PARENT of the visual ray,

To her bosom shift the day:

"There plant eyes" that may renew
Those which Beauty's mirrour knew;
Beams, that in the shade repos'd,
Their meridian light have clos'd!
Give her spirits gently gay,

That with Time and years can play :
Napier can be never blind

In the vision of the mind.

TO VOLTAIRE,

WITH A LAUREL-BRANCH FROM VIRGIL'S TOMB.

In the Name of the Margravine, Sister of the King of Prussia.

AT Virgil's tomb a sacred Laurel grew, Nor sleep nor age its glowing verdure knew; With undiminish'd leaf, and bough complete, It guarded, as it grac'd, the hallow'd seat. I touch'd it with my hand, and rested there, Play'd with my hope, and rally'd my despair; When from the tomb's recess a voice I heard"Approach," it said, "for thou art here preferr'd ; Thou art the Sister of my destin'd Heir,

Whose martial brows the wreath of glory wear : This Laurel is for him to thee 'tis lent—

It is Apollo's gift, and my consent.

* Milton's Songs of himself.

ON THE DOWAGER LADY *****,

THE form that moulders here in earth
Was a rich pearl in Beauty's worth ;
Nor ever had the cestus grac'd

A love more spotless, pure, and chaste.
Nor barren was the nuptial bed

On which the Loves their flowers had spread,
A miracle of infant grace

The raptur'd Mother could embrace.

But Heaven, whose favourites most are tried,

Smote, and the little charmer died.

Religion to the Mourner spoke-
She bore the agonizing stroke.

But more probation was at hand,
By Wisdom for the suffering plann❜d:
The Husband of her soul's free choice,
Dear to her love's unprompted voice,
In early manhood's ripening glow,
Struck by the deep and thundering blow,
A victim of distemper's rage,

Felt the infirmities of age.

But she, though born to be admir'd,
And with a social heart inspir'd,
With scorn her privilege reprov'd,
And was the nurse of him she lov'd.
Still, to make all defamers dumb,
Another trial was to come:

With pain the Muse that note could raise
Above the reach of human praise;

But for the living she can feel,

And therefore must the tale conceal.