With clear, but unsuspected view,
I soothe your pillow, and revere it,
Fond as when Hymen laugh'd and flew ;
If 'tis not Love, 'tis very near it.

TO MRS. CATHARINE P

Jan. 1, 1812.

THOUGH Lovibond, sweet Bard, is yours no more, And fled the tear that could the song adore ; Your sense and wit, the music of the mind, Are gems that Love and Virtue left behind. Though with imperfect vision you can see, You're as quick-scented as an Attic bee; You sip with taste the Summer's tempting flower, In classic beds of sweet Arcadia's bower, But find, and blushing for the wings that roam, Your cup of honey better fill'd at home.

To LADY HARDINGE.

Jan. 1, 1813.

To covet an appropriate bliss,

The Decalogue has made a sin;

But envy at a common kiss

Makes a poor guilt, not worth a pin.
Mine's an offence that Kings might share,
It reaches Envy's proudest height;

A Sun-beam the inspiring Fair,

And Love my envy'd Brother's right.

TO MRS. JOYCE P.

Jan. 1, 1813.

THOUGH you are not as yet a maiden aunt,
I am, alas! too safe as a Gallant.

In Friendship I have spirits ever young,
With unexampled vigour they are strung:
But you are nice, and catch the Palace air
From its deaf Stanhopes*, Thomas, and Fauquere.
"Your Agent?" will the Governor

consent? Or Cook forget the sums that I have spent? "Your Confessor ?" 'twill never do, my dear; I keep a sieve in waiting at my ear.

"Your Jester ?" No, 'tis coarse, and worries Kitty, Her Lovibond was classical and witty.

Thus failing three, dread quarter of a dozen, Hope smiles upon a fourth-I'll be

YOUR COUSIN.

* Lord Chesterfield was deaf as a post, and in years, but celebrated for his graces and his wit.-The other two Gentlemen resemble him in all these particulars.

+ Her footman is so called, as the amiable and graceful despot of the house.

I heard her say to the coachman, through his trumpet, for he too is deaf, "I am told he is poor, besides being so wicked in other ways."

TO GOVERNOR JACKSON,

WITH A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT OF A Crown IN SILVER.

Jan. 1, 1813.

ACCEPT a gift:-you must not frown ;

It's not a Buonaparte's crown,

*

But one that Friendship and the heart
For you, that boil their eggs, impart,
Whose butter'd cakes or toasted roll
Can make me feel myself a coal
As bright as in the parlour grate,
By Joyce approv'd, but not by Kate,-
Whose open gate, and spreading face,
Denote a hospitable grace,—
But whose attention to my boots +
A virgin, though a rider, suits :
Farewell!-had I of crowns a vein—

Duke of the Hive! and King of Spain!

It is the only point in which they differ; and it is always determined by the Governor in act—not in words, first by a look, then by the poker, inserted or withheld.

↑ His mode of insinuating that I have dirty boots by a manual tender of the mat, which commits a gentle rape on the feet as they pass-no Palace delicacy ever equalled.

TO A LADY, THE WRITER'S ACCOMPLISHED AND POETICAL FRiend.

ETRENNE, Jan. 1, 1814.

THE times are chang'd;- Apollo's wealth Melts into recipes for health*;

And Paon is the name alone

By which the Cynthian God is known:
Poetic Zephyrs hither bring,

Though Winter + frowns, a wreath of Spring-
Not for myself I ask the boon,

My vernal age is in the Moon,
But for the Partner of my Lay ‡
I court the Sun's averted ray.

Breathe your soft gales on Sappho's bed,
Your opiate balms § around her shed,
Her cup of health with nectar fill,
And pain with sweet oblivion kill,
Chace from her life, as year from year,
Through fields of air the passing tear.
Apollo, tune the rescued lyre,
Claim the deserter from your choir,
Till rivals of your sway are flown,
And the dear tenant is your own;
Propitiate listening Time's delay,
Nor let Hygeia's pinion stray;
My genius and my guide restore,
Till I inhale your breath no more:
Then may the turf to Fame be dear,
And live in a "melodious tear."

* She was just recovering from a severe illness.
It was a Winter of almost unparalleled severity.
We often corresponded in verse.

Her illness was painful.

Milton's Lycidas.

POEMS ON RELIGIOUS

AND

MORAL SUBJECTS.

HABAKKUK*.

HEARD ye?

-or was it Fancy's ear,

The birth of sound-creating fear?

Or was it Heaven's up-lifted rod,
That spoke in thunder from its God?
Avenging Lord! whom none withstand,
Redeem, and spare a guilty land!

'Tis thine, on spirits in dismay To shed the heart's enliv'ning ray; Change for the laurel a defeat,

And sound the conquering foe's retreat; His pride with panick to alarm,

And give the weak a Giant's arm.

* See Mr. Nicholas Hardinge's Latin Poems, p. 11. VOL. II.

M