Love, on the River's bank oppos'd,

With many a dancing Nymph appear'd:
All to relieve him interpos'd,

Each trimm'd the boat that Pleasure steer'd.

Love, gaily paddling to the shore,

Came where the good old creature stood;
With gentle force the captive bore,
And stemm'd with art the rising flood.

His oar with grace the infant plied,

And cheer'd his toil with playful rhyme.
"You see," the little boatman cried,
That Love's the Ferryman of Time."

But soon, fatigued, he pull'd no more;
Alas! 'twas ever his defect!

He

gave the passenger his oar,

And felt his wanton spirit check'd.

"Where now," quoth Time, " is Cupid's arm; Too gay to fear, too weak to last?

Mine is the song, and mine the charm ;

'Tis Time that pulls-'twas Love that pass'd."

DESPAIR.

THE sympathizing Muse to feather'd grief In a melodious tear imparts relief.

*

But, when Despair the bosom has oppress'd,

And leaves the heart no interval of rest,
In vain the Bard or Minstrel we implore:
Mute is their spirit, and is heard no more.

* Milton.

JOY.

WHY does not Joy its favourites kill ?
To live and breathe, when Joy is fled,
A doom inflicts, more painful still

Than torments that can reach the dead.

LOVE AND PRAISE.

Let Satire with her venom'd sting
Give pain to all that meet her wing,
Disturb their nights, and cloud their days:
Be mine the cup of Love and Praise.

Be ever banish'd from delight

The curse of being in the right:
Be mine endearment's partial rays,
Be my Reviewers Love and Praise.

PLEASURES OF PAIN.

'Tis true, that me, with roses crown'd, The tear of Sympathy has found,

And been at once obey'd:

That Pleasure's light, and Beauty's flower,
Have sunk-when pale Misfortune's hour
Implor'd Compassion's aid.

'Tis true, that in the moral grief
I never ask'd or wish'd relief,

Nor envy'd playful ease:

But Love the miracle has wrought,
And Love the feeling bosom taught
How dearly Pain can please!

VOL. II.

OLD AGE.

Oн, how blest are the old, if they bear without spleen
The delights of the gay, and success of the mean!
If, despairing of more, and of good that can last,
They can wait for the sequel, and smile at the past!
If their breast is a calm, which no passions invade;
If their loves are serene, and repose in the shade!
But, above all the rest of their wreath and their joys,
The benevolent mind which their leisure employs,
If they read and reflect--for the learn'd and the wise
Are awake to Distress, are at home to its cries-
Then with wreaths of the Muse and of Genius can play,
Till they fancy themselves are as brilliant as they.

IMITATION OF SOME LATIN VERSES,

WRITTEN BY SIR THOMAS MORE,

UPON THE PORTRAITS OF ERASMUS AND OF EGYDIUS IN THE SAME PICTURE.

Erasmus and Egydius, Twins in Love,
As all the Virtues and the Muses prove,
Like the two Stars of Leda's mystic flame,
Congenial spirits into being came.

In local habits to a distance thrown,
My heart is not as near them as their own;
The Painter lends me his protecting aid,
By Genius cherish'd, and by Love convey'd.
The absent thus united arts endear;
The mind is in the pen, the form is here.

ELEGIAC POEMS,

INSCRIPTIONS, EPITAPHS, &c.

INSCRIPTION FOR A TABLET,

IN HONOUR TO

THOMAS PAPILLON, ESQ.

Ir public virtue can a race adorn,
What child of Howard is more nobly born
Than he, that for his Ancestor can boast
A Judge impartial, though at Freedom's post?
A Merchant that, in wealth by Commerce wrought,
Was never guilty of a selfish thought?

A pious victim of the chastening rod;
Stern to himself, but humble to his God?
Firm, though oppress'd, against the Tyrant Man;
To hearts that bled, the good Samaritan?
A Moralist, the champion of his trust;
Friend of the good, and Parent of the just?
These are the birth-right- these demand the

care,

And are the jewels of his Fortune's Heir.

* See the "Literary Anecdotes of the Eighteenth Century," vol. V. p. 470.

† See in the State Trials the proceedings against Lord Shaftesbury before the Grand Jury.

But, Reader, thou hast claims upon the mine,

For thou canst make the

generous heir-looms thine.

Religion of these treasures was the key

Be a Good Christian— and 'tis held by thee.

ON LORD NELSON'S DEATH.

THE wreaths of Conquest on their Champion's

head,

Gustavus breath'd his last on Glory's bed;

The God of Battles was the Hero's Guide,
Embalm'd his name, and blest him when he died.
As bright in Council as in War, Turenne,
Pre-eminent above the race of men,

The cherish'd Idol of his Country, fell;
A Nation's anguish rung the Hero's knell.
The adverse Legions — an embattled Host—
Mourn'd the sublime example they had lost;
Were proud its glowing lustre to endear,
And grac'd their Model with a Rival's tear.

Congenial was the deathless Honour's prize, That clos'd in Fame an English Warrior's eyes, When gallant Wolfe the shout of Conquest heard, Fell as he liv'd-and rais'd the parting word.

But Nelson-who shall breathe to air the rest, Imprison'd in the agonizing breast.

By not a whisper'd Muse it can be sung;

It fills the pensive heart- and chains the tongue. Bath'd is the Hero's laurel in its tears,

And such a Victory defeat appears.